


AU August Challenge

by Miratete



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: #TryGuysEatSandwiches, AU August, Alien/Human Relationships, Alternate Universe - British Colonial, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Western, Ancient History, Animal Husbandry, Conjunx Endura, Conjunx Ritus, Crack Crossover, Desert, Domestic Fluff, Euphemisms, Family Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Host Segments, Hot Springs & Onsen, Humor, MST3K References, Medical Procedures, Nursery Rhyme References, Political Alliances, Prostitution, Sandwiches, Slave Trade, Slow Burn, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Xenophilia, ancient religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-06-22 17:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15587163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miratete/pseuds/Miratete
Summary: A collection of short AU stories--my first time attempting such a challenge.  And I'm quite pleased with the results!  Expect humor, romance, fluff, and love.





	1. August 1st and 2nd – Reverse Recruitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While on a hunt, Tarn is approached by some strange little aliens seeking work.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Tarn watched as Kaon did his thing, his crimson optics narrowing. The screams of their current victim filled the smallish space between the buildings along with the flickering light of Kaon at work. And it was in that flickering light he first noticed something that had not been there when they'd cornered their prey in these fatal back streets. Down one of the alleys several small creatures had appeared—tiny things. Each was no larger than the size of one finger segment, if that even. Possibly some sort of local vermin on this planet. They stared with wide, silent eyes at the horrific scene before them.

The victim collapsed to the ground—a smoking, twitching mess as Kaon resumed his root mode. “Want me to finish him?” Kaon asked, shoulders sparking ominously and a hand reaching for the mech's neck.

“I want a turn!” demanded Tesaurus.

Tarn nodded to the big mech, giving consent.

Tesaurus stepped forward and with one hand picked up the terrified traitor by one arm and raised him up. His other three arms reached out and gripped the damaged body. With a swift tug the arm was separated and to the victim's horror, was tossed into the whirling grinders before him, where it sparked brilliantly and bounced and was reduced to nothing.

“That was quite a show of fireworks,” applauded Helex. “Do the other arm.”

Tesaurus looked to Tarn again.

“Go ahead.”

And as the now armless mech screamed static and his limb bounced around in the grinding well, giving of another delightful shower of sparks, Tarn noticed that there were more of the little rats staring out at them.

“Do a leg! Do a leg!” Helex encouraged, hoping for the same show.

“No,” Tarn interjected before Tesaurus could tear off another limb. “I want him to stand on his own feet for this.”

The other four sighed as Tesaurus set their target down and turned him toward the DJD's leader. Feeling him falter, Tesaurus held him up, the mech's transfluid slicking his fingers.

“Can you hear me?” asked Tarn.

“Y-yes...” whimpered the mech, his voice barely there.

“Do you know why we're here?”

“Please... please spare me...” he begged.

Tarn sighed. Yet again the lesson had been ignored. And then he gave the victim one of his typical canned speeches about betraying the cause and not fulfilling his destiny, which was in fact the Decepticon destiny since the coward had enlisted with the cause. This particular target hadn't been anything exceptional. Just another deserter of the ranks. These days Tarn only went to the trouble of preparing something interesting or unique for the victim's last lesson if the offender had done something interesting or unique. Halfway through, Tarn noticed that the odd little vermin were even more in number now, their bodies becoming a yellow and blue carpet at the head of the alley. Their beady eyes were fixed carefully on him as he spoke. And when Tarn finished his speech he gave a nod to the team. “All right. You may have a leg. Or both. But if Vos wants a turn with him first, let him have it. I'm going back to the ship. I have some additional reports to fill out.”

With that he turned and walked for where they'd left the Peaceful Tyranny but paused at the hums of puzzlement from his team and the strange murmuring sound coming from below. Tarn turned and looked down to see the legion of yellow rats gathering at his feet, encircling him at a polite distance. “What the...?” Tarn asked with none of his usual eloquence.

One of the rats stepped out of the crowd of pudgy little bodies, raised two tiny arms in supplication, and called out some gibberish to the towering mech. Apparently they weren't just sentient but had something of an intelligence as well. However the translation unit came up with nothing when the phrases were run through.

Tarn bent down slightly and the alien rats' representative called to him again. Something different but still gibberish. Round eyes, which Tarn now saw to be covered by a pair of protective goggles, blinked up at the Decepticon. The blue skin over the lower half of its body now was seen to be some sort of garment. “What do you want?” Tarn asked. These tiny creatures had just paid witness to something terrible but it seemed to only draw them to the DJD's leader.

The representative looked at a loss, and then muttered toward some of the other tiny aliens. They chattered much among themselves, and Tarn couldn't help but be intrigued. Finally something seemed to be decided upon amongst them, and their leader turned back “Bah-weep-Graaaaagnah wheep ni ni bong!” it called happily up at him.

Tarn, despite himself, returned the answer.

The little yellow aliens seemed much excited.

Tarn caught himself. He didn't have time to waste on these tiny street rats, fascinating as they might be. He rose from the crouch he found himself in and continued on to the ship.

The little aliens cleared a path through their ranks for him, but the murmuring sound they made did not cease. At the end of the alley Tarn paused and looked again. The carpet of blue and yellow had followed him up the alley, huffing along at top speed on their itty-bitty legs.

Amused, Tarn walked on, wondering how far they would follow him. He slowed his pace and resumed his course back to the Peaceful Tyranny, keeping an eye on the diminutive horde trailing him.

And to his surprise they managed to follow him all the way there. At the foot of the gangplank, Tarn stopped and the alien rats gathered about him once more, though now panting and wheezing for breath. Their leader stepped out of the mass of bodies once more, staggering over nearly all the way to Tarn's feet. Carefully Tarn picked it up and studied it as it caught its breath.

It was a strange little organic thing with a simple, pudgy ovoid body and bright yellow bald skin. “What do you want?” he asked it.

“Bah-weep-Graaaaagnah wheep ni ni bong?”

“I believe I asked you a question first.”

The tiny yellow leader broke into some sort of imploring speech, all gibberish though. Sometimes Tarn thought he understood a word or two, but perhaps that was just the intonation the words had been delivered with. But despite not understanding the language, somehow he understood what he was being told.

“You? You want to serve me?”

The little yellow manikin nodded its head enthusiastically. “Si si si!” it blurted.

“Do you know who I am?”

It shrugged its shoulders sheepishly, but then gave a growl and another line of gibberish that ended with something sounding like “iago honcho.”

“You're awfully small though.” Now that it was standing in the palm of his hand, that fact was all too obvious.

The would-be henchman drew itself up firmly and puffed up its chest. Another line of gibberish and a gesture to its brethren had the carpet of yellow and blue growling and likewise puffing defiantly.

“Well then. Perhaps we'll give it a go,” Tarn responded smoothly despite himself again, “as you have that much confidence in becoming my minions.”

The alien rats all cheered, and with renewed vigor followed their new master up the gangplank into the Peaceful Tyranny.

-o-o-o-o-o-


	2. August 3rd & 4th – A Father's Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -o-o-o-o-o-
> 
> Thunderclash presents his youngest child with a thoughtful and practical gift.
> 
> -o-o-o-o-o-

AU August Challenge

-o-o-o-o-o-

August 3rd & 4th – A Father's Gift

-o-o-o-o-o-

“For me? You bought him for me?” Tailgate stared agape at the purple jet-former kneeling before him.

“I wanted you to have a bodyguard, and I think he'll do nicely.”

“But... he's a 'Con, isn't he?” Tailgate asked, noting the poorly-painted patches where faction markings had been removed from the mech's plating. These days it was the surest sign of a former 'Con. The fact that he was a purple-painted slave was an even surer sign.

“A former 'Con,” rumbled the horned mech, his helm still bowed low. “When the war ended, I renounced my faction.”

“Of course you did,” said Thunderclash snarkily. “But I still trust you.”

Tailgate looked up at his sire. “Are you sure about this?”

Thunderclash carefully crouched beside his youngest and certainly his final child, the hero's wounds still slowing him greatly despite the best care provided him by the Prime. “After the uprising in South Iacon, I just began to worry about you going out alone.”

“You worry too much about me. You should worry more about yourself.” The youngster placed his hand upon his father's chest. Though he'd been physically repaired, the damage to his spark lingered and even he could feel it in his father's EM field. “You were out far too long today. You tired yourself too much.”

“Such a caring little spark you are,” smiled Thunderclash. “But I care about you just as much. I wanted you protected. Cyclonus here will keep you safe since you won't let me look after you any more.”

Tailgate's head whipped around to look at the former 'Con. “Cyclonus? That's your name?”

The jet-former nodded.

“It's a grand name,” the small mech said, almost in awe.

“Thank you, Sir,” rumbled the big jet.

Tailgate turned the rest of his frame to fully confront Cyclonus. “You may rise, Cyclonus,” he said, and then watched in definite awe as his new servant stood. The slave had been kneeling when his sire had summoned him in, and his horned head had been bowed the whole time. And now Tailgate got a good look at the tall mech—his warrior's build, his intimidating face, his crimson optics, his clawed hands. His father had chosen well regarding a mech no one would mess with.

“Tailgate, I hope you'll come to like him. He wasn't cheap, but he came very highly recommended. He glanced over his shoulder at his own bodyguard, who folded his arms with a huff and looked away. “I didn't recommend him. I just said I hoped to never face him in combat again,” whined Whirl. “Can't believe you bought him.”

Thunderclash laughed. “Tailgate, take him down to Hoist and have him fitted with the house codes and markings.” He patted his son on the head as he rose himself. “He's already registered to you.”

“To me?” an astonished Tailgate gasped.

Thunderclash smiled benevolently. “I think you're old enough to start owning your own property.”

Tailgate squeaked happily and flung himself around his father, burying his face in his sire's stomach. “Thank you so much, Sire! I'll take good care of him. And I'm sure he'll take good care of me.”

The older mech smiled and patted Tailgate's head once again. “I know you will.”

-o-o-o-o-o-


	3. August 5th and 6th - Hidden Gems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet makes an unexpected discovery while out slumming With Drift and Rodimus.

AU August Challenge

-o-o-o-o-o-

August 5th and 6th - Hidden Gems

-o-o-o-o-o-

“C'mon Ratch! You'll love this place.”

“It's a pleasure bar. What's so great about it?” It was hard for Ratchet not to smile. The three of them were wearing personal holographic field generators to disguise their appearances, and Rodimus had somehow managed to make himself look something like an off-brand Predacon.

“They only hire ex-Cons,” Rodimus volunteered.

“What? Did you get a job working there? You're pretty enough to be a dancer,” Ratchet snarked at Drift.

“They've begged me to, but I keep saying 'no' to them,” Drift teased back.

“So all the pleasurebots working here were once Decepticons?”

“Yep. Makes them a bit more edgy. Bit more exciting.” Rodimus came up to the end of the line that had formed at a doorway topped by a sign reading 'Lucky Chance Pleasure Bar.' “And the engex is pretty cheap here too.”

Ratchet groaned. The two had insisted that he'd been working too hard of late and that he accompany them 'on a night out.' He'd not expected to end up slumming in a tattered industrial district. He suddenly realized that the suggestions of a Golden Age Revival Concert had just been bait to get him to agree to accompany them.

They joined the line, and in a couple of breems Drift was paying for their admission. Once through the armament scanner they found themselves in a cavernous room through which colored lights flickered and loud music pounded. The bar seemed about half-full occupancy-wise.

Of course Ratchet wasn't impressed. It was just like any other pleasure bar on Cybertron. Several service counters sat around the edges of the place serving engex and oil and a variety of other drinks. A long catwalk ran from one wall into the middle of the room, upon which a few mechs strolled very casually, attractively gyrating their frames in time to the music. When each reached the end of the catwalk, he would twirl or dance around the pipework frame there and show off his frame to the audience. If a patron tossed a few credit chips onto the catwalk, the mech would pause longer to pick them up and usually entice a few more shanix with a bit of provocative behavior. It was just the first step toward the real money maker for the bar. A patron could hire a room and take a pleasurebot into it for half a cycle. High rollers could rent out a more luxurious studio for longer and entice whomever they wished in for drinks and... well... pleasure. Now and then a parading mech would step down from the long runway before having completed a full circuit and head for the back with a patron.

Ratchet took a quick glance up at the list of house-set prices for the favors available. And the prices were quite reasonable. Maybe if one of the workers caught his eye he might indulge in a quick frag later. Rodimus and Drift most likely would be making use of what was available.

After a stop at one of the counters for drinks, the three found seats close to the catwalk to observe the parade of mechs and the occasional femme promenading past. “Ever recognize any of these guys?” Ratchet asked Drift after a while.

“Sometimes... not often though. Most were genericons. You can tell they've tried to mod-up a bit to disguise that they're wearing a Decepticon-issue frame.” None of them would ever recognize him. His holographic field had been set to disguise him as a yellow and light blue jet-former.

Rodimus' attention was drawn by a black and violet mech whose plating had been festooned with rhinestones, and he went up to the front row of seats for a better look. On his return pass, Rodimus brought him down off the catwalk. Giving Drift and Ratchet a saucy grin, Rodimus disappeared into the swirl of lights with the pleasurebot.

When Drift headed back to get another couple of drinks, Ratchet noticed the minibot femme now on display. She came along, looking rather short and somewhat chunky as most minibots did. She had been given a sprayed-on glitter-coat to perk up her grey and blue-grey plating. A blue sequined shawl hung carelessly around her shoulders. Blue sequin tassels hung three from each hip. But it wasn't her sparkling appearance that attracted his attention. He watched her as she moved down to the terminus of the catwalk and swung around a bit on the pipes.

Coming back to his seat, Drift noticed his friend's attention. “Like the little femme?”

“She's a medic.”

“A medic? Are you sure? What's a medic doing here?” Drift studied her closely as she climbed up onto the pipes and writhed against the open structure. Medics of either faction werestill in great demand to repair and rebuild the long term damages of the war.

“I have no idea. You can see the instrument pockets and her scanner ridges, if you know what you're looking at. She's been modded though. Cripplingly so. Those feet of hers should be wheels, not feet. Looks like she's been extended too, to make her a bit taller.” Ratchet cocked his head. “Missing some plating. Needs a better stabilizer in her hips. There's something off with her...”

“Ratchet, you're not at the clinic. If you're going to do anything for her, it's going to be to pay her for a loveless frag,” Drift interrupted, smacking his friend's thigh.

Ratchet gave a laugh of agreement. “You're right. You're right.” And then he cocked his head as she began to make her way back up the catwalk, not having attracted a client while on the pipes. “And I think I'll do just that.” He rose and moved up to the front row of seats.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“What would you like?” the minibot asked, sitting down on the berth beside him. She still wore her mostly-forced smile.

“I'd like to talk.”

Her smile fell. “Just 'talking' is the same price as an oral performance,” she said with obvious disappointment. Apparently her customer just wanted to waste her time.

Ratchet cut to the chase. “You're a medic. What are you doing working here as a pleasurebot?”

The little femme froze. “What? How? How did you know that I was?”

Ratchet chuckled. “Takes one to know one.” He disengaged his holographic field, shifting from a blue and green cargo shuttle into an red and white ambulance-former.

She stared, her mouth hanging open in an expression of dull surprise. Such pretender-devices were common enough but were expensive and difficult to come by.

“So what are you doing here?”

Her staring suddenly became a flustered wiggle. “You... you're... you're Ratchet, aren't you?”

“That doesn't answer my question,” he asked, hiding the fact that in truth he was somewhat flattered that he was so well known.

She bowed her head shamefully. “I couldn't find work elsewhere. No one trusts an ex-Con to make repairs on them, especially as I...” She suddenly stopped and then looked up at him, forcing a smile again. “I make good money here at the bar. And usually the clients are pretty nice.”

“You've made some sacrifices though.” Ratchet rubbed his hand over half of a hinge. There should have been an exterior piece of her alt-mode attached to the missing part of the hinge.

The minibot scooted away from his touch. “Yeah.”

“What's your name?”

“Star Tail,” she said quietly.

Ratchet gave a snort. “That's not what Megatron would have called you, is it?”

“Of course not,” she said even more humbly.

“Who were you? Why are you here?” he demanded.

“What's it matter to you?” she asked. “Look, do you want to frag or not? Because if you don't you're just wasting my time, no matter who you are,” she snipped.

“You're a feisty thing, aren't you?” Ratchet laughed. A personality that matched his. He produced a thousand credit chip and held it up in front of her, her optics widening at the sight. “Tell me everything.”

-o-o-o-o-o-

Ratchet ushered the minibot into the clinic. Stripped of her glitter-coat and accessories she was nothing special to look at. “Nickel, this is where you'll be working.” Being after hours it was empty and dark, but Ratchet switched on the lights, illuminating the long expanse of the clinic's main room.

“This place is huge,” she gasped, optics darting as she tried to take in the size and scope of the place.

Ratchet nodded. “Biggest in Iacon. And you'll be working directly under my authority. If anyone has problems with that... well, that's their problem, because what I decide around here is law.”

“People will have problems with me,” she said humbly.

“I know. Most mechs would run in terror on hearing that you served the DJD.”

“Tarn's personal medic,” came the flat-sounding response.

“Makes you a good medic. And a survivor.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “If you can survive me, we'll see about getting your alt-modes back. A new paint-job might be nice too.”

Nickel looked up at him. “You really are serious about me being here...”

Ratchet nodded. “I think though... keep your new name. I like the sound of Star Tail.”

“It sounds like a pleasure bot's name...” she sighed.

The mech walked forward into the room, looked about, and then ran his hand over one of the two huge diagnostic units that stood as sentinels to the rest of the clinic's work space. “And it will be my pleasure to have you working here,” he said confidently.

-o-o-o-o-o-


	4. August 7th and 8th – Daughters of Men: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some seven thousand years ago, in the fledgling city of Eridu on the banks of the Euphrates, the people receive a visit from their deity--a giant half-man, half-fish made of metal.

August AU Challenge

-o-o-o-o-o-

August 7th and 8th – Daughters of Men: Part One

-o-o-o-o-o-

As night fell, the people of Eridu began to gather on the riverbank, crowding against the low brick wall that separated the temple precincts from the town beyond—the sacred from the mundane. As they did every tenth night, they'd bathed, dressed in their finest, adorned themselves with jewelry, painted themselves with cosmetics, and put on their sandals. The men had shorn their heads that day. Those that could afford the luxury had anointed themselves with perfume.

More importantly the temple had been prepared. Every brick had been dusted. Every floor-tile had been swept. The lamps had been filled with oil. The chambers had been seen to. The necessities for worship had been laid out. The priestesses had bathed and dressed in their gowns. The high priestess had spent the entire day being tended to and prepared by her servants.

And now she was brought out to the riverside to await the arrival of their deity—the arrival of Adapa. Her skin had been painted blue, and she wore scales and plates of metal decorated with gold in imitation of the great sage. In the flickering of the lamps she looked as divine as her husband did. Her passage elicited murmurs of admiration from the townspeople and gasps from the visitors that had come from elsewhere to observe the famed tenth night rituals of the first city along the great river.

A cry from the downstream quay turned everyone's head and every eye focused on the silty water. The deep current broke as an enormous shape rose to the surface. The people cried out in surprise and delight as the enormous fish moved into the reedy shallows.

“Kneel for him, for Adapa!” cried out the chief priest, raising his staff of office. “Kneel for the great sage, the first Apkallu, the son of Ea, the bringer of wisdom, the bringer of civilization, the giver of gifts to the Adamu.”

By the time the pronouncement was finished, every knee was in the dust, save for those of the chief priest and the high priestess. Adapa's main servant and his wife were only to bow their heads for his approach, a mark of their honor above all other humans. And as the great fish reached the river's edge, it broke apart and reshaped itself and rose in the form of a man—a man thrice the height of an average one. His skin was yellow and blue and gleamed even in the fading twilight. His eyes glowed with blue fire. The head of a fish sat upon his own head while the body and scales of one hung down his back. Stars glowed upon his limbs. The tails of comets streaked his legs and chest. As he rose from the river the water fell from him and he moved toward the priestesses. Visitors from the other places trembled in terror, some even running away, a few even fainting.

“I give greetings to my people!” Adapa said, his voice rumbling with a metallic sound. He spoke as a god in the language of the ocean sky. The people all called back to him—some in the language of the mortals, and those who knew the language of the ocean sky greeted him thusly. And it pleased him for he laughed and waved his hands. And then the great sage crouched and stretched out his hands toward the high priestess, opening them in greeting. “Ninith, my love,” he spoke with more softness.

“Adapa, my Lord,” she said in welcoming, old eyes sparkling with joy at her husband's return. She had known the honor of serving him some forty-three years as the high-priestess.

Carefully the water-dweller gathered her up into his massive blue hands and lifted her to his face. The mask he wore disappeared to reveal his face, one like that of the other gods but like that of the people as well, and with his lips he kissed her gently. And then he placed her upon his shoulder and waved again to the gathered crowds, now trembling with excitement behind the low wall of tar-coated brick. “My people, I have returned again. I hope you have been well in my absence.”

At his greeting the priests swarmed forward and Adapa crouched again, allowing them to remove the river weeds from his scales and douse him with filtered water from their basins. And then the priestesses came forward, one of which carried the food of the gods—the glowing yellow light of the sun itself, captured by the plate Adapa had himself placed atop his temple.

He took the bowl and drank deeply, and then continued on to the temple, escorted by the priestesses and still carrying the high priestess upon his shoulder. For hours now he would sit with the upper heirarchy of his temple and Eridu's administration, sipping the food of the gods and relaxing. The musicians would strum their harps and shake their rattles while the priestesses would dance for his amusement. Light business might be addressed but anything of a serious nature would be kept back until the morning. The other sage, if present, would join them later.

And when he'd had enough, Adapa would make his way into the innermost chamber of the temple, lie upon his great bed with Ninith beside him, and together they would sleep the rest of the night, the god whispering his secrets to her in the language of the ocean sky.

-o-o-o-o-o-


	5. August 9th and 10th: Daughters of Men: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some five thousand years ago, in the great city of Eridu on the banks of the Euphrates, Seaspray receives some difficult news.
> 
> or: 
> 
> What you were taught in World History 101 about the beginnings of ancient civilization was only half right.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Seaspray and Beachcomber stood waiting as the transport landed, the populace of Eridu cowering at the edges of the landing field. The people had become accustomed to the arrivals of such craft but it never ceased to shock and awe them. The upper echelons of the temple staff stood at the mechs' sides, quite accustomed to the presence of the greater beings. Their high technology was comfortable to them. Beachcomber had even taught some of them to use it and they assisted him in his work.

Optimus Prime disembarked first, followed closely by Ironhide, Prowl, and Smokescreen. The humans all knelt as the four Autobots approached.

“Welcome to my humble little corner of the planet,” Seaspray laughed, opening his arms in welcome. “We've been expecting you.”

“Of course,” said Prime, taking Seaspray's hand in greeting. “Beachcomber,” he said, greeting the geologist.

“Hey Prime. Good to see you again.”

“It's hot out, so we'll go into the hangar to talk,” Seaspray said before any other decisions could be made. “It's much cooler there and it's much more comfortable for my human staff as well.” He gestured at the men around him dressed in shaggy sheepskins and elaborate kilts.

“Your humans,” chuckled Ironhide. “I dunno what you see in these organics.”

Seaspray's mask hid his grimace. “I like them. They have such a capacity for learning and for love. They keep reminding me of what we're fighting this war for,” he defended.

Optimus put a hand on Seaspray's shoulder. “Don't mind Ironhide,” he assured him. “He's gotten grouchy and cynical since coming to this planet.”

“And the humans on our continent are little better than the animals,” added Smokescreen. He looked at Seaspray, whose alt-mode had been crafted to resemble a large native fish. “Of course you're little better than the animals now.”

The Autobot leader raised his hand. “That's enough, Smokescreen.” He turned back to Seaspray. “Let's get out of this heat then, shall we? Lead on.”

Escorted by the priests and soldiers, they walked from the landing field outside Eridu to the now sprawling human settlement that had sprung up around the hangar. When Seaspray and Beachcomber had first begun to harvest the sea floor there had been nothing here—simply the river, the reeds, and the vast scrublands beyond.

The two mechs had been the first to arrive on the site of what would eventually come to be known as Eridu, and they had chosen the riverbank location as their base of operations for their particular mission. The hangar erected soon thereafter stood out above the flat plains and its presence attracted curious subsistence farmers in the area. The fishermen dwelling in the marshes watched the frequent passage of the metal men with great curiosity and trepidation. The nomads that roamed the areas, herding sheep and goats, were terrified but intrigued as well by Beachcomber's forays into the hills and across the dry land in search of mineral deposits. Over the meta-cycles the humans had dared to come closer, and after a couple vorns they were living side by side with the giants they found to be friendly and gentle. Their children played at their feet. When nomads raided, the giants protected them and their meager stores of grain. When times were tough, Seaspray would bring a large fish back from the ocean to be cut up and divided among the neediest of the people.

And then everything had changed.

Seaspray began to teach them, and so began their advancement from mere creatures of the land toward a bonafide civilization. First came irrigation—the two mechs hewing channels into the dry soil to spread the waters of the great river around to their crops. Next Beachcomber taught them to make bricks of the river's mud and to stack them for housing. Simpler structures were formed by bundling up reeds with cord. Then he showed them how the tar found floating in the river could be used to waterproof their boats and to waterproof the lower sections of their brick structures against the springtime floods. Clay was dug and worked and baked to create vessels for storage and pots for cooking and dishes for dining. Seaspray brought them many different types of seeds to plant and no longer were they stuck with relying on wheat and squash and a few greens. 

Many other advancements followed—Seaspray teaching them the technology of a more advanced civilization: clothmaking and clothing, the brewing of beer, a medium of exchange, trade with other settlements. In time a class of priests and administrators rose, and along with them came a formalized language, schools, and medicine. The mechs taught them a system of writing for the keeping or records and history and the making of contracts. The priests and scribes learned Pelagian, the language of those that traveled the stars and melded their own languages into it.

But after this the two mechs that resided with them were now seen in a different light.

The hangar that had been put up for Seaspray and Beachcomber to work out of became a temple, its walls being covered with bricks and the lower regions painted with tar as protection against the yearly flooding. The rest was plastered and painted for beauty. Atop it the priests had built a small sanctuary formed of better finished bricks with a cap of elaborately bundled reeds. Here they studied the skies and performed rituals when Beachcomber and Seaspray were away. When they were present, the two were served in the main room of the hangar by their staff, the humans attempting to see to their every need and to perform the tasks they were given. Some of the humans had displayed a keen intelligence and a strong affinity for their technology.

Over the vorns the temple had grown and expanded into a large complex that hid away the original hangar. Gardens and fishponds filled the spaces and terraces. Tiles of polychromatic glaze covered the walls. The solar converters sat upon lesser buildings while the main ziggurat had been dedicated solely to sky watching and ceremonies. Seaspray and Beachcomber were no longer giants of the earth but divine beings to be praised and emulated. They were great sages who taught the people to live better and to live together.

The six Autobots went into the temple and sat upon the benches, where the priests retreated to sit behind them, ready to serve. In the shadows of the room's ceiling, a large fan spun, circulating the air. Several priestesses attired in white came forth, bearing bowls of energon for the Cybertronians. “Pure solar,” said Seaspray proudly. “It has a different flavor from the geothermal you're making back at the Ark.”

The mechs drank and nodded approvingly. Ironhide asked for a second bowl, and was quickly obliged. 

Refreshed and cooled, Seaspray turned to Optimus. “You mentioned a new development and wanted to tell me in person. What's up?”

Optimus Prime sighed. “Well, as you know, certain regions of this planet were claimed by the Annunaki. And subsequently abandoned after the richest gold deposits were mined out.”

“Of course.”

“But they still own much of this world... and some of them have decided to return.”

Seaspray was startled. “They're returning?”

“The mining conglomerate owners left just under a millevorn ago after one of this planet's volcanoes erupted cataclysmically. With the difficulties brought on by that catastrophe and the dwindling supply of gold they decided to give up and leave. But they have since passed on their claims to their children, and said children have decided to make a second go of it. They're reclaiming their humans and their old territories, hoping to make a profit once again.”

“I see.” Seaspray's optics looked around at his people. Most of which sat quietly, hands clasped over their lower chests with their eyes reverently upon the Cybertronians. He couldn't help but notice that the highest echelons of the priesthood were looking on with puzzled expressions, wondering what exactly the Autobots were talking about. “Am I... I mean, is this place on one of their claims?”

Optimus nodded gravely.

Seaspray sighed. And then he looked back up at Optimus. “What will happen if Beachcomber and I won't be able to keep mining manganese, and we have to leave.” He looked around again. “I can't just leave my people behind. They need me. And... I'm kind of attached to them.”

Ironhide was shaking his head. Prowl was scowling.

“He's got a wife here,” volunteered Beachcomber.

“A wife?”

Seaspray looked embarrassed. “Yeah... just a favorite pet. They think of us a couple. It's their way.”

Prowl was now shaking his head while Ironhide groaned audibly.

Beachcomber patted Seaspray on the shoulder. “She's more than that. I'm surprised you've not introduced her.”

“You've taken a bondmate among the local population?” Optimus queried. He looked down at the relatively small humans about them. Mixed marriages were common enough due to their expansion and colonization of other worlds, but this relationship seemed a bit unusual due to the noticeably lesser nature of the humans.

“Ah, yeah, Prime. I was kinda lonely,” he answered sheepishly. His scales shuddered. What he held back was that he'd entertained a long succession of wives. At the death of a high-priestess, a successor would follow. He would choose a favorite priestess from among his staff and elevate her to near divinity. Sadly it was at the least a vornly event—frequently twice-vornly. The Annunaki had bred their workforce with so many defects—one of which was their short lifespans. Since the initiation of the ritual, he'd bonded with some thirty-two different women.

“I'd like to meet her,” said Optimus.

“I'll have her fetched,” said Seaspray. He turned to the humans behind him and gave instructions.

“So if we have to terminate the manganese mining here,” said Beachcomber, returning to the subject, “will we relocate it somewhere else? Provided we can locate new sea-floor deposits?”

“The sea-floor where you've been operating is not within the claims of the Seventh Core Mining Conglomerate. So I don't think we'll have to terminate. As for this base of operations...” Optimus looked about. The hangar really didn't look much like a base of operations now. “We'll negotiate with the Conglomerate to see if they'll allow you to stay. If not, we'll set you up on an island or another continent somewhere as convenient as possible.”

Seaspray sighed. “My people here... they're under the claim of the Annunaki, aren't they?”

“I'd expect so.”

“They're not the original workforce though. The Annunaki abandoned the humans to their own means when they pulled out, right? These are their descendants,” Beachcomber protested. “And honestly they've become invaluable in my work.”

Smokescreen spoke up. “I'll be handling the negotiations with the Annunaki, and I'll be looking at their claims. It may be that the humans still belong to them. It may be otherwise. I'll have to do some research first.”

Seaspray was anxious. “I've become attached to the ones here, obviously. And they're pretty attached to Beachcomber and I. We aren't forcing them to be here. They choose to be here.”

“Exceptions can be made. The Annunaki can be flexible, I expect. How many people do you consider 'yours'?”

“There are about five thousand people here in the city and the nearby marshes. It's hard to get an exact number as they reproduce easily but die just as easily.” Seaspray estimated.

“Well that's not that many, really,” Smokescreen decided.

There was a bustling from one end of the hall and Seaspray rose to his feet. The Autobots looked to see a small procession entering. “Sharat-sippar!” Seaspray called happily.

The high-priestess as always was escorted by her attendants, and she had dressed in her robes of office rather than her ceremonial garments. The golden headdress atop her heavy wig gleamed in the low light. She'd been painted with cosmetics but not in the holy fish-scale patterns. Jewelry of lapis lazuli and carnelian set in gold hung about her. As she was, she was dressed to receive important visitors should she be summoned. And on entering, she made her way to Optimus, kneeling before him and bringing her forehead down to touch the hangar floor's paving, no easy task given her headwear.

“Optimus. This is Sharrat-sippar, my wife. She speaks fluent Pelagian as all my staff do.” He seemed almost embarrassed to be referring to her as such. None of the other Autobots had taken a native mate.

“I am pleased to meet you, Sharat-sippar,” Optimus said graciously.

“How may I serve you, great Ea?” she asked, her head still against the tiles.

“Ea?” Optimus queried of Seaspray.

“Their chief deity. It was the easiest way to explain you to them,” was the explanation that came back in Cybertronian.

“Oh, I see.” Optimus then addressed the human female. “Sharat-sippar, please rise. I wish to look at you.”

The high priestess did and stood still as the Autobot leader studied her. “She's very attractive,” was the appraisal—in Cybertronian again.

“These people are very civilized compared to most of the ones on our continent. You've taught them a lot,” commended Prowl.

“Well, I didn't want to teach them too much, but they've come a long way.”

“Not sure the Annunaki will be pleased with that,” Smokescreen laughed.

Seeing Optimus was done with his examination, Seaspray called his wife to his side, where she sat at his feet upon a chair brought over by her attendants. Seaspray whispered something to his wife in the human language, which Beachcomber caught and giggled at but the others didn't understand.. Sharat-sippar blushed.

Beachcomber spoke up. “Have you met with the Annunaki yet?” he asked the others.

Smokescreen nodded. “I have. They're typical of other colonizing organic races. A bit elitist and definitely profit-minded.”

“If we have to leave our base of operations here? Do you think they'd let me take my people with me?” Seaspray asked.

Smokescreen shrugged this time. “I suppose as long as they can reclaim a labor force to work their mines it won't matter where their humans come from. And these humans have spread out a lot since the original occupation of this planet. There are certainly a lot more of them now than when they left given what I've learned of their original occupation.”

“A thriving race then, despite their handicaps.”

“Mmm,” Seaspray agreed with a nod.

The business side of the visit was over shortly, and Beachcomber commanded his staff to bring forth some high-grade for them. He'd begun distilling it owing to the plenitude of energon and his discovery of quite a few tasty mineral deposits of late. After a while Beachcomber asked the priestesses to dance for them, which they did enthusiastically. It wasn't every day that the chief of the gods came to visit.

Seaspray was glad to see the others enjoying the entertainment. He watched the other five mechs as they drank and watched the dancing and caught up on the gossip from the Ark. He did his best to participate despite the deep worry in his processor. He lifted Sharat-sippar into his lap and stroked her arms and back through her linen gown. If the Annunaki allowed them to continue as they had been, things would be just fine. Smokescreen was right. There were plenty of humans out there after all that could be corralled into their labor force. If he and Beachcomber had to leave, perhaps they could at least take the people of Eridu with them to the new base of operations. He supposed that was the most important thing... the protection and continuation of these organics he'd come to love.

He looked down at the human female in his lap—for some reason he'd always been attracted to alien women—and he knew he definitely loved her. He'd loved each and every one of his high priestesses despite their human frailty. He wouldn't leave Sharat-sippar behind even if she fell under the claim. If by the time they had to leave she was gone and replaced, he wouldn't leave her successor behind. His optics scanned the priestesses as they moved gracefully about the tiled floor. One of them would eventually take Sharat-sippar's place. Perhaps one of the youngest acolytes. Perhaps some unborn-as-of-yet child. It didn't matter. He adored them all. Ironhide might scoff at his weakness. But that mattered neither.

“Adapa?” Sharat-sippar asked quietly and casually, her dark eyes looking up at him.

“Mmm?” he acknowledged, looking down at her with glowing blue optics. 

“You're worried,” she commented in the common tongue, apparently knowing the other gods could not understand her if she spoke the language of her birth.

Seaspray was startled by her observation. She was only twenty four meta-cycles old—so very young. She had been his high-priestess, his wife, for barely three meta-cycles.

“What are you worried about?”

Seaspray sighed. “It's complicated. There are some... well, I'll tell you later, once I know more.”

“You won't tell me now? Just a little?”

Could she even comprehend what the issue was? That she and her kind were the hybridized creations of another alien race —the result of infusing the endemic primate population with genetic material from worlds beyond? That her people had been abandoned by their creators eons ago? They they were the leftovers of a commercial venture that had been adopted by him and Beachcomber? That the gods sitting with them were simply the people of another planet here to collect mineral and metal resources to supply their depleted planet? That the technology he and Beachcomber had gifted them wasn't anything miraculous? That the language of the gods given to them was just simple Pelagian, a common language for interstellar convenience? There was so much the humans didn't know, and possibly couldn't even begin to understand.

Seaspray shook his head, his scales catching the light of the lamps around the room. “Later.” It would be easier to explain once the fate of Eridu had been decided.

“All right,” she said with a smile. “I trust you, my Lord. You always know best.” She turned to watch the others again.

Seaspray held in his sigh. He didn't always know best. Sometimes he was certain she was just as wise as himself if not wiser. She had been a standout among the other priestesses from the beginning—not the prettiest but certainly the most intelligent and intuitive and compassionate. Choosing Kammani's successor had been far too easy for him.

He stroked his wife's thigh and looked back out at the party, and then around at the temple. It would be a shame to see this all end. Eridu was such an interesting hobby for him and Beachcomber. And he really did love his people.

More than that he loved his high-priestesses.


	6. August 11th and 12th: Sandwiches Ahoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ummm... weirdness involving the crew of the Lost Light... and sandwiches. You'll want to view this bit of crack first: www.youtube.com/watch?v=72i3XhRcn0s

-o-o-o-o-o-

Rodimus stomped into the executive office of the Lost Light where Ultra Magnus, as always, sat at his desk with a datapad in hand. “Look, if this is about what happened down there on the planet, let me tell you that...”

“This isn't about what happened down there on the planet, Rodimus,” the big mech interjected. “Though that has been brought to my attention and I suppose it is somewhat related.”

The captain folded his arms over his chest defiantly. “In that case, what is this about?”

“Your conduct of late. Too tense. Too reactionary. You've become something of 'a loose cannon' so they say.”

“I frankly don't care what 'they' say,” Rodimus huffed. “If anyone is having a problem with me, he can come tell me himself.”

“Rodimus? When's the last time you had a sandwich?”

Rodimus stared blankly, completely disarmed by the question. Had Ultra Magnus really just asked him about his lunch habits? “What does that have to do with anything?” he snapped on recovering from the shock that Ultra Magnus actually had just asked him that, pulling his arms up to cross them defensively over his chest again.

“Mmm. I thought so.”

“What?”

“Ratchet suggested it and I am inclined to agree with him.”

“What?!!”

“You could really use a sandwich or two.” The Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord rose from his seat and tucked the datapad away.

Rodimus continued to stare blankly.

“We will adjourn to my quarters. If you wish, you may meet me there in a breem or so. However, if you do not join me within a cycle, and have not joined someone else, I will be sending a security detail to fetch you.”

Rodimus' arms fell away again. Was the mech really serious? “You're kidding? Right? This is some sort of joke, right? Well ha-ha. Very funny. Now if you'll excuse me.” He turned to go. Somehow he'd thought ol' Mags would be the last to succumb to lunacy aboard this ship, but apparently he was wrong.

“The door will be unlocked to your code. I will see you shortly.”

Rodimus stared after him as Ultra Magnus passed him and moved for the exit. “You really are serious, aren't you?”

“I am.”

“But... you?”

“Ratchet said I could use a sandwich myself. This seemed like the most practical solution.”

-o-o-o-o-o-

Swerve pushed a drink across the counter where Skids sat. “So you really don't remember anything?”

“Well, I wouldn't say that. But there's so much locked up inside. Little bits of it come out now and then. It's like... like there are tiny little walls keeping my memories shut away, and every now and then one comes loose. Then I remember something.”

“Do you remember the last time you had a sandwich?” Swerve laughed.

“Are you offering, if I don't?” he asked, a sultry curl to his lip components.

Swerve was startled by the question. Did Skids really think he was coming on to him? But the tone of voice suggested that Skids was quite willing to indulge in a little ham on rye. “You... you'd like to have a sandwich with me?” he asked. Hopefully his tone of voice didn't sound that shocked or desperate or ready to leap at the offer.

“If you are offering.”

Swerve looked about. There weren't many customers in the place. Nautica and Brainstorm were giggling quietly at a corner table. Jackpot and Atomizer were just putting away a gameboard and looked ready to leave. Whirl was... Whirl was glaring at everyone from his table. “Give me a moment to close the bar. Then we can go back to my place. I've got... I've got everything we need there. And mustard... if you're into that. Don't know if you do. I like mustard but a lot of mechs don't. But we don't have to have mustard. I mean there's more to sandwiches than mustard.”

Skids smirked. “I love mustard,” he answered once Swerve stopped rambling.

The grin that split Swerve's face was priceless as he jumped up onto a stepstool and announced to this few customers to drink up because he'd be locking the doors in a breem.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“I don't think this is appropriate,” said Cyclonus, staring down at the plate Tailgate was holding up to him.

“It's just a sandwich,” pleaded the minibot. “Everyone on board is eating them these days.”

“I'm not everyone.”

“Oh.” 

“Thank you, but please take it away.”

Tailgate looked crestfallen as he put the sandwich back in the refrigerator. “It's right here though. If you ever want it. I mean, even just a little nibble, to see if you like it.”

“Thank you, but no thank you,” was the answer, the purple mech no less swayed.

Tailgate sighed. Maybe someday Cyclonus would indulge him. Ever since Cyclonus had saved his life he'd entertained thoughts of the two of them cuddled together, eating sandwiches and maybe even sharing a glass of milk. Wouldn't this be the best way to show his feelings for the big jet?

But today was not that day, he accepted sadly as he closed the refrigerator door, shutting away the tasty goodness he so wanted to offer.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“You were amazing,” Velocity gushed, grabbing onto First Aid's arm as they left the medibay together.

First Aid looked startled. “Huh? What? Me?”

“You. In surgery. You saved Atomizer's spark there.”

“Oh... that.” First Aid was unused to such praise. “I was just doing what I needed to do.”

“It was more than that. You just had... had an instinct. I don't think I could ever have done what you did back there. Your hands were so steady, and what you did with your own field... That's not in any of the books.”

First Aid laughed awkwardly. “It's... it's just something I started trying out back at Delphi.”

Velocity gripped his arm tightly. They were still walking, but they didn't seem to be going anywhere in particular. Their shifts were over and Ambulon and Ratchet were on duty now. “Seriously, he was so close to dying, but you... you just somehow pulled a miracle out of subspace and... wow. I am so impressed. I think even Ratchet was impressed.”

“I don't know about that...”

Velocity suddenly stopped. “First Aid? Would you like to come back to my quarters?”

“Your quarters?”

“Have sandwich with me?”

First Aid gasped in astonishment. “A sandwich? Really?” His steady hands trembled.

“Please say yes.”

The medic looked at her in amazement. Had a femme just actually asked him that? “You're really asking me?”

“Please?”

It had been so long since he'd shared a sandwich with anyone. Let alone cheese and crackers. “I'd... I'd like that.”

She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss. “I hope you like muffalettas,” she whispered.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Rung sat in Fortress Maximus' lap, the huge mech holding him with one hand, the other hand holding up the final piece of a BLT. “I... I don't think I can take any more. That sandwich was huge,” Rung panted.

“You're so close to finishing it though,” Fortress encouraged sweetly.

“I am so close.”

“Open up. I think you can handle it,” he said, pushing the last few bits of the sandwich in Rung's direction.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“Oh! Ow! Get off me! Get off!” Tailgate squeaked, arms flailing ineffectively against the Insecticon.

“Bob! Back off! Bad bug!” Sunstreaker shouted, grabbing his pet. That was when he saw the mess his pet had made of the little mech. Pieces of torn bread and wilted lettuce lay all around. Half-eaten slices of lunchmeat as well. Tailgate's plating was smeared with mayonnaise and ketchup. And oh Primus... was that remoulade slopped across his thigh? Sunstreaker quickly leashed his escaped Insecticon and tied him to a pipe before pulling out several towels to start wiping the tiny mech up.

“He knocked me over... started eating my sandwiches,” Tailgate sobbed.

“Oh Tailgate. I am so sorry. He escaped me and... well... Bob can smell it if someone's carrying a lot of sandwiches and... well.. Oh Primus. Should I take you to Ratchet? Are you all right?”

Meanwhile Bob was pulling hard at the leash, desperate to have more of Tailgate's delights.

“I think I'm okay,” Tailgate coughed, Sunstreaker helping him to rise.

“Come with me. My habsuite's just around the corner. I can clean you up better there.”

Tailgate looked down at himself. He really was a mess, and the bug had... He winced, thinking about what the Insecticon had just done. He'd hoped to give that basketful to Cyclonus... someday.

“Please? I feel so awful about this.” In truth, Sunstreaker was worried. This hadn't been the first time Bob had gone chasing after someone with sandwiches. It was the first time however that Bob had actually caught someone. Surely if this got around, Rodimus would drop him and his pet off on the next asteroid they passed. Perhaps if he could convince Tailgate not to press charges he'd have another chance. “Let me give you a good cleaning. And I've got this amazing wax from Earth.”

Despite his distress Tailgate's optics brightened. “You'd polish me?” While Sunstreaker had something of a reputation for being antisocial if not downright difficult, he was also known for his gorgeously kept plating, the secrets of which always remained a secret.

“Well sure.” Inside Sunstreaker breathed half a sigh of relief. Maybe if he played his cards right the whole Bob and sandwich incident could be glossed over.

“I'd... I'd... like that,” Tailgate stammered.

“Well please. Let me fix you up. You'll look like you just walked off the assembly line,” he smiled. Perhaps he could actually turn this into something positive. Whatever it would take... “I could give you a bit of a sparkle to your shine too.”

“You could?”

Sunstreaker breathed the second half of that sigh of relief when he escorted Tailgate into his quarters. He'd heard the minibot was rather naive and somewhat gullible, and this was definitely going to work to his advantage.

Later he realized just how naive and gullible the blue and white mech was. The two of them were sprawled upon the couch, admiring Tailgate's new gloss and the elegant metallic silver detailing Sunstreaker had enhanced him with, feeding each other cucumber sandwiches with giddy delight.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Drift burst into the medbay, startling First Aid and Ratchet from the game of rollback going on between them. As the pair looked up in dull surprise, Drift quickly turned and put the lock on the medbay doors. Moments later there were mechs heard outside. “Hey! Open up!” “Drift! We know you're in there!” “We just want to talk a bit more.”

“What in the Pit is going on?” Ratchet huffed.

Drift looked back at his friend, optics bright and panicky. “Ratchet! You've got to help me!”

“Help you with...” Ratchet's words suddenly trailed off as both he and First Aid caught the first whiff of toasted Italian bread, melting cheese, and hot pastrami.

“Please. I was trying to... I couldn't... Well, it's like this...” Drift fumbled his words in his panic and couldn't figure out where to begin.

Ratchet approached and put his hand on Drift's shoulder. “I think we understand.” He turned and nodded to First Aid, who immediately scurried down to the medbay's patient rooms.

“Ratchet...” Drift pleaded.

“It's okay, kid. We're going to put you in isolation until those things cool down.”

“Ratchet, thank you,” gasped the white mech with much relief.

Ratchet led the speedster back into one of the rooms where First Aid was arranging things for their guest, and he guided Drift into a chair. “I've got control of the lock, so you'll be safe here, firstly from anyone trying to break in, and secondly from you trying to break out.”

“How long do you think it will last? I mean the last time I made a hot sandwich...” He shuddered at the memory.

Ratchet sat in the chair beside him. “It probably won't be too long. Always feels like it's taking forever though.” The CMO nodded at First Aid, who left the room, closing the door behind him. The containment field snapped up as soon as it was shut.

“Ratchet... maybe...” Drift reached down to open a panel. “Maybe you'd like a bite? It might go faster if you help me with it.”

Ratchet turned back to see Drift holding the most delicious looking sandwich before him, dripping with sauce and melted mozzarella. The tantalizing smell was calling out to him with full force now, begging him to sample it.

“Just a bite?” Drift offered.

Even with his medical programming, Ratchet found his mouth beginning to water. Was that really a fresh parsley garnish and a side of macaroni salad? “Please Drift, put it away,” he said, doing his best to stand firm in the face of his friend's perfect temptation.

“Are you sure? I want you to have it,” Drift pleaded. He lifted the upper bun to reveal caramelized onions and slivered sun dried tomatoes.

“I... I need to go,” Ratchet said, becoming less and less resolute in that decision.

“Ratchet... you don't have to. Let's share it together...”

“I do.” He quickly pulled the containment field, unlocked the door, and all but bolted from the room, knowing that if he remained any longer he'd end up unable to stop himself from devouring that exquisite sandwich. As delicious as it would be, he'd never be able to forgive himself, both personally and professionally. Drift might not forgive him either.

-o-o-o-o-o-


	7. August 13th and 14th: The Marriage of the Nijika

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katsu Don promised that Nijika and Perceptor would meet again.

August 13th and 14th – The Marriage of the Nijika

-o-o-o-o-o-

“Ni?” Spike called from the bedroom closet.

“Mmm?”

“Where's my cape?”

“On the bed. I got it out while you were at the office and steamed it for tonight's reception.”

Spike turned around and there it was lying in plain sight. And then he shook his head. He'd never expected this when he'd taken the alien robot as a wife. She had proved to be a domestic goddess.

“Ni? What are you wearing tonight?”

“My blue kimono, unless you think otherwise.”

“No. I like that one.”

“I'd hope so. You bought it for me yourself,” Nijika reminded him, coming into the bedroom.

“I did, didn't I?” He'd bought dozens of gowns for her when they'd first been married. She needed them for the ambassadorial work. And he had to admit that she looked pretty good in them, especially with the fine tuning she'd given her body. At first she had looked like an over-painted doll. Now she looked mostly human.

She helped him to attach the cape to the shoulder pieces of his suit. “There. You look nice,” she said, stepping back.

“Nice enough to kiss?”

Domestic goddess or not, three years of marriage had not changed the fact that Nijika had once been a Cybertronian scientist, practical and calculating to the core. The need for an ambassador between the Zamojin and Cybertronians had led to the taking up of the Nijika frame once more. The marriage of convenience between her and Earth's ambassador had somehow only gotten sweeter with time.

A rare smile rose on her red lips—a rosy red that matched the paint on an empty frame lying in a hermetically sealed storage crate. “If you insist.” She leaned in an gave him a peck on the lips. Sometimes Spike just needed to remind her of the need for a display of affection.

-o-o-o-o-o-


	8. August 15th & 16th - Gold Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elita and her troupe of dancing femmes entertain a team of newly-rich miners in Cybertron's Old West.

AU August Challenge

-o-o-o-o-o-

August 15th & 16th - Gold Dust

-o-o-o-o-o-

Elita called her girls back from the tiny gap in the curtain where they'd been peering out into the house.

“It's them. It's really them! They decided to come in here tonight,” Lancer said excitedly.

“And they had a lot of the good oil on their table!” Moonracer added.

“And engex! Mirage's best!”

Word had traveled quickly around the not-so-sleepy town of Silverforge. A team of six miners had come in that morning from the northern Chamix orefields with a tremendous haul of gold. They exchanged it for credits at the assay office and then had proceeded to spend those credits about the town. The same story played out about once a meta-cycle when some fortunate mech would find a bonanza hidden in the cold canyons of the high mountains. The triumphant return to town would bring money to the locals.

“Now just remember, girls,” Elita cautioned with a motherly smile. “Think with your wallet... not your spark. The money will go but the mech will remain. Other than that, have a good time, and good luck.”

The femmes all nodded, and just then Jazz popped backstage. He opened his hands to display a thousand-credit chip. “The mechs at table seven told me to bring this back to you if you could start the show early. They said they've not seen any pretty femmes in a vorn and are eager for a look at you.” The black and white mech pressed the money into Elita's hand. The girls were all giggling and trying to not to squeal.

“Think you're ready to go on?” Elita asked confidently of her troupe.

A volley of enthusiastic answers came back.

“All right then. Let's put on a show for those lonely boys.” She turned to Jazz. “Go ahead and announce us.”

Jazz nodded and went through the curtain, applause erupting from the audience. Besides the team of miners, every table in the house was full. The curious townsfolk had been eager to see what the six would do at Mirage's Silverforge Saloon. The entertainment provided there was always a draw, but tonight could bring some excitement.

As Jazz began the evening, telling a few jokes and playing a few ditties on his standing melodeon, the dancers lined up behind the curtain for their entrance. Elita walked along their line, fluffing their skirts and headdresses. “I'm serious about what I said earlier, Moonracer,” she said as she primped the femme.

“Yeah, Moonracer,” smirked Chromia next to her.

“I can't help it if I fall in love easily,” the pale green femme whined.

Elita chuckled lightly. “Well then, go ahead and get your spark broken again. Might as well make it five times.”

Moonracer pouted and stomped her heel.

Elita moved on down the row, coming eventually to Arcee on the end. “Ready darling?”

“I've been practicing hard,” the pink femme said confidently.

Elita cupped the pink femme's cheek—the youngest of their troupe. “I know you have. And when we head offstage... I know you don't know how to flirt that well yet, but not every mech likes a flirt. Just smile and be nice and agree with the mech four out of five times.”

“Why not every time?”

“Because if you agree all the time, he'll know you're either lying or not paying attention,” she laughed.

Her daughter laughed with her. “All right, Carrier.”

Jazz finished up his introduction and announced the show. The house-lights dimmed and the curtain rose on the stage as Jazz returned to his keyboards and began to play.

Applause immediately burst forth as Elita's troupe, headed by Elita herself, began their opening routine. The troupe danced and sang and smiled. Credits clattered onto the stage at the end of each number. The applause was louder than most nights, and the catcalls as well. And as for the team of newly wealthy miners, the six were loving every moment. They hooted and hollered and tossed money onto the stage for the femmes. Wheelie, Mirage's errands boy, came out at one point to collect it for the girls, worrying that all the chips might trip one of the girls. And halfway through he went and got a broom to sweep up the money—mostly for comic effect—and the audience loved it just as much.

When the first act was over, the femmes came down to circulate among the Saloon's patrons, but of course all made sure to make a pass of the miners' table. Each pass would be rewarded with free drinks along with the expected patting and groping. It wasn't the first time a lucky mech or group of mechs had come in to celebrate newfound gain. The leader of the group of soon took a liking to Elita and quickly got her sitting on his knee, sharing a glass of engex with her.

“What's your name, sweetie?” the leader asked dropping his facemask to reveal a handsome visage.

Elita smiled and tossed her head, making the feathers dance and the rhinestones sparkle. “Elita,” she answered.

“I like a femme... especially a pink one. Your girls are pretty but you're the prettiest of all.” The mech offered her a cup of high-grade and held it to her lips as she drank.

“You flatter me,” she smiled

His strong hands encompassed her thin waist and stroked over her thigh-plates. “Do you sing again for us later?” he asked.

“I do. I'll be singing 'The Star in my Spark' and 'Forget the Tears'.

The mech smiled. “I love 'Forget the Tears'. He pulled out a five hundred credit chip and stroked her throat with it. When you sing it, would you look at me? Like you're singing it to me?”

She took the chip and tucked it into a pocket. “I'll sing it just for you, handsome.” She patted him on the cheek and gave him a long, slow blink.

Mirage was behind the bar, working with his two bartenders that night due to full house as well as his own eagerness to see the team of miners and make sure they were served properly. Bumblebee caught him in a rare lull between orders and clapped him on the shoulder. “I think we'll break some records tonight,” the chipper minibot grinned. “Everyone's in such a spirited mood.”

“I think we just might,” Mirage grinned. “I expect the girls will go home with heavy pockets tonight.”

“They'd better!” laughed Inferno as he tapped a fresh column of energon. “The way those boys are tossing money for a little wiggle onstage, imagine what they'll be paying later for a big one upstairs.”

Mirage nodded. And then he turned to the yellow mech “'Bee, take a pitcher of my private stock to table seven. Make sure they know it's compliments of the house.”

Bumblebee nodded and went into the back to fill a crystal decanter.

Jazz came back onto the stage after three breems and the femmes headed for the dressing rooms to change into a different set of costumes. He played a tune on his standing melodeon and then led the audience in couple rounds of 'Sweetest Starshine'. Then he put the melodeon on auto-play as Firestar came onstage and danced a lively routine with him. 

As Jazz and Firestar took their bows, Arcee came out in a feather-trimmed cape and an elaborate bonnet, making her look like she was still a sparkling. Doing her best to look shy and innocent, she sang a cute little song as she swished her apron around. One of the miners leaned his elbows onto the stage rail and stared up blissfully at the young femme, and when she finished he beckoned her over. “I think I'm in love with you,” he sighed, pressing a fistful of credits into her hands. Embarrassed, Arcee gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and hurried backstage so that the others could start their next dance routine.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The night went on, and by the time the bar counters closed, half of Mirage's regular stock had been drunk and the patrons were staggering out. Moonracer and Lancer and Firestar were upstairs entertaining three of the miners privately while Elita, Chromia, Arcee, and Greenlight sat with the other three. Bumblebee dimmed the lights and began to tidy the tables while Inferno washed the glasses and soaked the straws. Mirage took the till into his office to count it. Wheelie set to sweeping the stage.

“You're a beautiful mech, Elita,” the leader of the miners was saying, the pink femme in his arms. “What would it take to get you to come with me? You keep refusing my offers.”

She smiled sweetly. “My spark is set. This is my home, and my life won't belong to another.”

“What about you, Arcee? Would you come away with me? Maybe your carrier would follow,” asked the mech holding her hand, the one who had taken a fancy to her earlier. His other hand stroked at her forearm and toyed with her shawl, black fingers combing out the fringe.

“I... I can't,” she said shyly. “I promised my carrier that I would stay with the troupe.”

The third miner laughed. “Well that settles it. You ladies will just have to come with us. Six of us. Seven of you.” And then he smiled at Jazz, who'd brought over some stringed instrument and was playing it softy. “Make that eight of you,” he said, giving Jazz a wink. “Some of us like the mechs just as much as the femmes.” His arm was around Greenlight's waist, and he gave her a squeeze. “I'm rich enough now to provide for two mates.”

Chromia laughed from her seat on the stage. “I'm a match for two mechs. You'd better count me out.”

“Our home is here in Silverforge,” Elita said resignedly. “We don't want to leave.”

Mirage approached from the bar, his accounting done. “Gentlemen, I'm sorry to say but we will be closing for the night now.”

The mech with Arcee stood and took Mirage's hand. “Sir, your establishment is the best we've ever seen. And these femmes working for you are the loveliest we've ever seen.” He pushed more credits into Mirage's hand. “A shame you're not open all night.”

Elita, knowing her cue, rose to leave, but the leader of the miners held onto her hand. “Is there nothing I can offer? Perhaps plating you with gold? Platinum?”

Elita shook her head. “Another time. Another place.”

He scrabbled to his feet. “I'll buy you your own saloon, and you can sing and dance to your spark's delight. We're heading down to South Trillex. They could use some real entertainment there,” he pleaded.

“You're very generous, Sir,” she said formally, and then gave him a resigned smile and departed, her daughter hurrying after her. Greenlight and Lancer took their leave as well.

“G'night mechs. It's been a pleasure,” Jazz grinned, shaking the closest hands and departing.

The leader sighed and turned to his compatriots. “Get the others. It's time to go.”

-o-o-o-o-o-

“Well? How'd it go?” Optimus asked as Elita stepped into the basin in the corner of the room and began to pour water over herself.

“See for yourself. My purse is on the berth.”

Optimus walked over to where her purse lay upon the padding and lifted it. Then he emptied it out, amazed at the credits that came spilling forth. “Looks like you had a good night.”

Elita giggled. “It was a good night. You should have been there.”

Optimus shook his head. “I didn't want to interfere with business. You know I only show up if necessary. And I hope not to.”

“Those boys were well-behaved,” Elita smiled, kneeling in the basin now and wiping herself with a sopping towel.

“Mirage said the same thing.”

Optimus gathered up Elita's earnings and put them back into her purse. “You make more than I do these days. I should retire and just let you work.”

Elita gave a laugh. “I know you're teasing me. You'd die of boredom within an meta-cycle. And besides, Sheriff, who would you get to replace you? Hmm?”

The big mech grinned. “One of these days I'll finally accept that you're smarter than you are pretty.”

“And what happens then?”

“I'll realize that you're far too good for me, and I'll never be the same again.”

Elita finished washing herself and began to dry off with a towel. “In that case, you'd better never accept it. I like you just as you are.”

Optimus wandered over to where Elita was hanging up her towel. He put her hands on her shoulders, turned her around, and kissed her deeply.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Morning broke with Ironhide banging on Optimus' door. “Optimus, get 'yer panels closed and get out here. There's an enforcer come to see 'ya. He's waiting in 'yer office.”

Optimus and Elita sat up simultaneously, woken so rudely from their slumber. “What?” An enforcer?”

“Yeah. Come in from Praxus,” said the deputy.

Optimus gathered himself and took a glance in the mirror to make sure he was presentable. “I wonder what's up,” Elita asked, getting out of the berth herself.

“Not sure. But I expect I'll know soon.” 

-o-o-o-o-o-

The black and white Praxian rose as Optimus entered, extending his hand in greeting. “Sheriff Optimus, I'm Enforcer Prowl of the Praxian Territories.”

They shook hands and Optimus moved to his desk, gesturing for Prowl to have a seat again. “So what brings you all the way out here to our humble little town?” he asked. Praxus had once been a frontier town much as Silverforge had, but its central location along the Kaon River had turned it quickly from a sleepy backwater to a major hub within a couple of vorns, the city becoming a jumping-off point for settlers and explorers and commercial venues heading into the frontier lands.

“I apologize for sounding brief, but I am tracking a gang of thieves who I am fairly certain have come through your town within the past few days.”

“Thieves?” Optimus had heard nothing of any robberies or hold-ups or even a mugging.

The enforcer produced a datapad. “Three days ago, the First Bank and Assay of Praxus was discovered to have been robbed. The vault was emptied of not just its credit chips, but of an undisclosed number of gold ingots. We aren't sure of the time of the robbery, as it was not immediately discovered, but at least a day had passed since the last bank employee had entered the vault and the time of the discovery.”

“Oh?”

“The thieves seem to have tunneled in through rock and dirt and were able to burrow up into the bank's vault undetected.”

“An unusual modus operandi.”

“They went right through a wall of bedrock and a floor of solid steel. Moreover, they had tunneled from a barn some hundred and eighty-seven meters away. No simple task.”

Optimus was stunned.

Prowl handed the datapad to Optimus. “Any of these mechs look familiar?”

“Very much so,” Optimus said slowly.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Prowl sat with Elita's troupe, Mirage, Sheriff Optimus, and a few other mechs at Mirage's establishment, everyone looking very sober and nervous.

“They said they were miners,” Elita said defensively, holding the datapad with the picture of the six mechs upon it. “They looked like miners. We all believed they were.”

“But they came here and spent their money wildly? How could you not have noticed that something was out of the ordinary?”

“Yes, it was out of the ordinary, but sometimes we see that sort of thing happen here,” she explained.

Optimus stepped in. “They looked like they could have been miners. They were painted as a work-team, all in green and purple. And as the largest settlement in the area, we do get miners here that have struck it rich. Someone hits paydirt up in the canyons and next thing you know they're coming in with bags of gold to exchange for credits and then to spend it on high-grade and girls.”

Elita stared at the image again. The large mech at the center had been their leader, the one who had begged her so hard to run away with him.

“You say the assay office in town exchanged their gold for credits?” Prowl asked, turning on another of the assembly. “How could you have missed that the gold was in Praxian-standard ingots?”

Beachcomber, the mech who ran the assay office drew himself up. “They brought me gold nuggets and gold dust in well used toss-bins. It looked just like placer gold, right out of any streambed or deposit. How was I to know it was stolen? When I analyzed it it even had the signature .003% silver and .014% silica compounding of the Chamix orefields to it. Everything they did seemed typical. There was nothing to be suspicious of.”

“That sort of thing can be faked,” Prowl stated.

“Not easily. It takes some serious work to return ingots to a natural state,” Beachcomber defended.

The enforcer took the picture of the six mechs from Elita and handed it to Beachcomber. “One of their gang is a chemist with a tumbler mill on his back. Could he have worked it?”

Beachcomber stared at the six, two of which he definitely recognized as the two that had been into his office with their bounty while the others stood outside. “Well I suppose that's how they did it then. Pretty good job of it, I must say.”

“So they were here just last night. Where did they go from there?” he asked Optimus.

“They left town,” piped up Jazz, who had been sitting at the back of Elita's group, fine tuning his melodeon as the others spoke.

“Oh? And how do you know.”

Jazz looked a bit embarrassed, but he'd decided to volunteer the information nonetheless. “I was going to meet one of them, after the saloon had closed. “He offered me two thousand-credits for a good frag since the femme he liked wasn't responding to his offers.”

Greenlight suddenly gasped.

“And?”

“I waited for him outside, but their leader suddenly seemed to be in a hurry to leave town, so the mech just gave me a little money and left. They all transformed and took the south road out of Silverforge.”

The enforcer scowled. “Any idea where they were headed?”

Jazz cocked his head. “I did hear someone mention Trillex.”

Elita brightened. “Their leader mentioned South Trillex. He wanted to take me there.”

“Trillex is a long way from here,” Prowl scowled.

“It is,” Optimus agreed.

“But Trillex doesn't have an extradition policy. It would be a reasonable destination for a gang of criminals.” Prowl turned to Jazz again, leaning on the table toward the black and white mech. “What time did they leave town?”

Jazz thought back from closing time and about how long would have passed from then to the time of the canceled assignation.

“I'm well behind them, but now I know I'm on the right track.” Prowl straightened. “There will be a detail of enforcers along within a day or two to take statements and gather more information. Be prepared for that.” He looked about the group again. “Anything else anyone wants to say before I head out?”

Elita rose. “Sir, the gang of miners... er, thieves... They spent a lot of money on myself and my girls last night. We didn't know it was stolen. Some of that money has already been spent on paying debts and on buying energon. Some of us have sparklings and families to support.”

“I understand your concern. And I have no doubt that you earned that money.” He glanced momentarily at Jazz before looking back at Elita. “By Praxian legal code, that money is yours. You took it in the expectation that it had been obtained through honest means.” He turned to Beachcomber. “The same regarding your cut taken at the assay office.”

“We won't have to give it back?” Chromia asked.

Prowl shook his head. “No, as it seems there was no reason to suspect the origin of these supposed 'miner's' funds. I trust Sheriff Optimus' judgment. This gang will be held responsible for what was stolen from the First Bank and Assay of Praxus, the value of which was well documented, regardless of whatever they spent or lost or gave away along the way.”

The femmes all gasped and giggled happily and hugged one another.

“Any other questions?” he asked.

Without any response, Prowl stepped out of the saloon and into the street where he deployed several long-range antennae and began transmitting his findings. Prowl noticed Jazz step out onto the saloon's porch, and as their optics met, the musician came down into the street.

“Thank you for being so nice to the girls. They were honestly upset when they found out. They're good femmes, you know.”

“Nice? I was just doing my job. It's not about being nice.”

“You were.”

Prowl cocked his head and looked the black and white mech over. “You shouldn't have to be selling your frame, you know. But I suppose I should be thankful that you were. If you hadn't, I'd not be sure where to be heading next this soon.”

Jazz shrugged. “Why not get paid for something I like to do anyway?”

“It's your frame, I suppose.” Transmissions finished, he pulled in his antennae and was about to say something else when Mirage, Optimus, Ironhide, and Elita appeared at the doorway of the saloon. The mechs came down into the street while the femme lingered in the shade.

Mirage presented Prowl with several standard grade cubes of energon packed for travel. “Take these, compliments of the house. You'll need some fuel as it is a long way to Trillex.”

The Enforcer nodded in thanks. “You're most kind. We will reimburse you though. Our division covers expenses.”

“You don't have to. But I hope that you do catch up with these bank robbers.” 

“Enforcer Prowl? My deputy and I are coming with you,” Optimus announced. “There were six of them, and they were construction-build mechs. If you find them you're going to need some help against those industrial frames.”

Prowl shook his head. “I've tracked down plenty of criminals before and am confident in apprehending these.”

“There's just one of you. You'll need a hand, at least until your own jurisdiction sends reinforcements.”

Prowl considered. “That is logical.”

“Besides, Ironhide and I know the area. And, we have a secret weapon.” He pointed at the battlegreen mech walking up the main street of Silverforge toward them. “We can help you find them. Hound here is a better tracker than any Insecticon scout out there.”

Prowl looked at the approaching mech, who waved in their direction. “Logical as well.”

“Besides, I don't appreciate that they decided to bring their dirty business to my county. I have a lesson to teach.”

“Would your interest have anything to do with the fact that their leader was trying to lure away your femme?”

Optimus grinned beneath his mask. “Elita takes care of herself—it's part of her job. My interest in apprehending them is legal.” He wasn't going to ask how Prowl knew  
that he and Elita were a couple. They kept the fact hidden from all but those closest to them.

Prowl laughed sardonically. “All right, Sheriff. I will accept your assistance until reinforcements from Praxus arrive.”

Optimus transformed, the others following suit. “In that case, we're ready to go.”

Prowl dropped down into his alt-mode, a sleek interceptor perhaps a little to civilized for the rough terrain and unpredictable roads of the frontier regions. “I'm ready,” he said, starting his engines.

“Then let's roll out,” Optimus said commandingly, and turned for the south road.

-o-o-o-o-o-


	9. August 17th & 18th - Endless Reverie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet x Nickel... a sequel to “Hidden Gems”

-o-o-o-o-o-

Waiting by the wayside  
Of an endless reverie  
Where all the things I run from  
Are sure enough to find me

-o-o-o-o-o-

“It's worse than that,” said Drift, a smug smile beginning to form on his face.

Ratchet folded his arms over his chest. “What, pray tell, could be worse than you and Rodimus leaving Cybertron on some crazy quest to find some guys no one cares about any more?”

“I'm leaving Nickel to look after you. She'll be moving in tomorrow.”

“What! No!” Ratchet spat. This was madness. “You can't.”

“She agreed with me that someone needs to look after you, and I convinced her that she was the one for the job.”

“I don't need looking after. And I certainly don't need her moving in with me,” Ratchet protested.

Drift shuttered his optics and gave a devil-may-care shrug. “She's moving into my apartment, which I happen to own, and you happen to live in.”

“You told me it was mine since it was handy for the clinic.”

“Yours to live in, rent-free. And will continue to be so. It's just that Nickel's moving in here too. But hey, she'll be good for you.”

Ratchet's hands clenched into fists.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Nickel would not be dissuaded. Nor would she bought off. Or pawned off. A few cycles after the clinic closed for the night she showed up at the door with Drift and a minibot-sized couch and a modest crate of belongings.

“I really can survive by myself,” Ratchet pleaded with her for the umpteenth time once Drift had left them alone.

“Drift told me that he slept here three nights out of five to make sure you were fueling and resting properly,” she said, unfazed by his resistance.

“Drift and I have something of a relationship.”

“Yes, he mentioned that you two were frag-buddies. About that...”

“Nickel, that's none of your business! You're a fantastic medic, but my private life is none of your concern.”

“Once Drift and Rodimus are gone on this crazy mission of theirs, it will be. Drift insisted.”

Ratchet huffed a burst of static and stomped off to the berthroom, shutting the door behind him. Perhaps he could rent somewhere else to escape to. And of course there was that old fall-back—sleeping in one of the patient berths at the clinic. He'd miss the view out the window of the Iacon harbor, but at least he wouldn't have to put up with Nickel playing nursemaid to him. Really, she should be saving herself for taking care of their patients.

-o-o-o-o-o-

He woke to find a grey mass in the bed beside him, and as his optics focused he saw the sleeping form of Nickel. His first thought was to get up and leave. It was fine sharing the berth with Drift, but this was inappropriate. How dare she just climb in with him! Just because there was only one berthroom and only one berth in it didn't mean she had the right to share.

But then he felt her field against his, warm and velvety and welcoming. At work she kept it tightly leashed, and when he did feel it, it was cold and prickly to a certain degree. But here, in the quiet of the night, it was... comforting. He'd talk to her in the morning about getting a second berth.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“Look, why don't you just stop kidding around and just come to bed with me?” Ratchet said one night as he finished his fuel. “I know you're there. No more of this sneaking in and sneaking out while I'm in recharge.” She was supposed to be sleeping on the couch she'd come with.

“Sure. I can do that,” she said, sounding as if he'd just asked her to fetch a particular tool in the middle of a surgery.

He'd found he did recharge steadier in her presence. Something about the way her field went soft and comforting in their down time. It wasn't just when she was asleep either. He'd also noticed that his energy and mineral intake levels had gone up to an optimum level now that they were refueling every night together. Drift unfortunately was right. She was good for him.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It had been a tough three days. There had been an explosion leaving dozens of innocent mechs of dead and injured. The Renaissance Decepticon Front was claiming responsibility. From prison Megatron publicly denounced the attack. Starscream promised investigations and executions. Ratchet and Nickel spent the entire time at the clinic, every berth full. The other medics under Ratchet pulled extra shifts as well to deal with the casualties.

When all that could be done had been done, Ratchet and Nickel took the transport rail home as they always did. In silence they drank their fuel. Then Ratchet filled two glasses with engex and they drank those.

When they tucked down for much needed recharge, Ratchet did not refuse when Nickel snuggled against his chestplate, her tiny hands curling upon the edges of the plating. And she said nothing when he gently laid a large hand upon her shoulder. It was then that each realized the other was crying tears of optic wash over the tragic loss of life in what was supposed to be a time of peace.

-o-o-o-o-o-

They slept touching every night now, Nickel spooned into the curve of Ratchet recharging on his side. She wasn't Drift, he always reminded himself, but her field felt amazing against his own and her very presence calmed him. First Aid was the first to point out that the CMO was much more relaxed of late. Much more patient. Much less cantankerous. He didn't verbally connect Ratchet's change of mood to Nickel, but Ratchet was sure he knew.

-o-o-o-o-o-

From across the medbay Ratchet watched the little femme work, busily attaching a row of struts to her patient's large wing-like doors. When unhurried and in her element she was so pleasant and calm.

“I said size five!” she suddenly screeched at the medicroid assisting her, the calm shattering around her. “Size five! Not size six!” She slapped away the handful of tools the medicroid was presenting her.. “Ratchet!”

“Yes Nickel?” he answered, amused at how her sudden outburst had come just as he was admiring her working placidly.

“I want a real assistant. Not some worthless drone!”

Ratchet chuckled. “I'll take you to the assistant store tomorrow and you can pick one out.”

“I'm holding you to that, Ratchet!” she snapped, still ruffled from the medicroid's mistake.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“How's Skyflame working out for you?” Ratchet asked over their evening fuel.

“He's inexperienced and a bit too wound up, but otherwise I like him. He seems to have a good instinct though. How's Fusebox?”

She and Ratchet had paid a visit to the Iacon Vocational College and lured away their two best medical students with promises of apprenticeship training rather than years of studying manuals. The two students naturally jumped at the offer.

“Sometimes he thinks he knows everything and I have to remind him otherwise.”

“Ah, that stage. But haven't we all been there?”

Ratchet took his feet off of the ottoman and rose. “I'm turning in early,” he announced and moved for the berthroom.

“Early?” Nickel queried, her optics wide.

“Yes. I'm tired. I spent far too much time today putting that rotary back together.”

“Early?” she asked again.

Ratchet smirked from the doorway. “You seem to be having an effect on me.”

-o-o-o-o-o-

Ratchet woke and as always Nickel was there, deep in recharge. She really was having an effect upon him. Slowly he lifted his hand and stroked her helm with a careful finger

To his surprise the minibot sighed in her sleep and her lip components moved into a smile. Another few strokes and she'd cuddled a bit closer.

However had such a gentle spark come to be Tarn's medic? Tiny angels weren't supposed to dote upon giant devils.

Though if anyone had seen her fuming and spitting over the state Skyflame had left his tool cabinet in the week before he would have sworn Tarn cowered in fear of the diminutive demon.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“So how's it going with Nickel?” Drift asked. The Lost Light had returned to Cybertron for repairs to the quantum engines after something only spoken of as “The Incident” had occurred. Drift had of course come for a visit and the two were now stretched out in a cozy oil house with a fancy kettle of the house's best in front of them.

“It's going well,” Ratchet responded. “She's an amazing medic. Fearless and knowledgeable. A little spitfire too.”

“That's not what I asked, and you know it.”

Ratchet gave a half laugh. “Living with her? Fine. I was sure she'd move out after an orn but she didn't.”

“She said you two were sharing the berth. Have you 'faced her yet?”

“Excuse me?” The medic reached for the oil kettle and refilled his cup. I'm not exactly in the habit of fragging my staff.”

“You did back at the Lucky Chance.”

“That was before she was staff. You very well know that doesn't count.”

Drift laughed. Ratchet would always be Ratchet. “Well since you haven't I guess I'll have to make up for that tonight then. If Rodimus is free I'll let him help.” 

-o-o-o-o-o-

It shouldn't have been anything, but somehow it was. As Nickel was elbow deep in the triple-changer she and Skyflame were installing a pulmonary transfluid pump into, he noticed that Skyflame had his hand on Nickel's shoulder as he leaned in behind her. What was he doing on that side of the table? And why was he touching her? Shouldn't he be using both hands to keep the patient's internals out of the way of her tools? Her assistant was clearly touching her unnecessarily.

Ratchet held his tongue and moved back to his own work, but he could not get the trivial thing out of his head. And it took him the whole day to realize why he couldn't. But then he had realized it right away—several times in fact-- but had dismissed the reason again and again as illogical. But as that reason came back yet again at closing-time he decided that what he'd decided as illogic was just the disguise his pride was wearing. Romantic jealousy was something he'd long thought himself incapable of.

But if he was jealous, that could only mean that he held unrequited feelings for the grey minibot, feelings that went beyond the friendship and the admiration he viewed her with.

Naw... It couldn't be.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“You! You were with the DJD!” the dull red mech on the table suddenly screeched, causing Nickel and Skyflame to jump back.

Around them, everyone else was staring.

The patient sat up and yanked a pistol out of subspace and aimed it right at Nickel. “The DJD killed my conjunx!” he shouted. “And you were with them. I saw you there as they tore him to pieces!”

“Easy there,” said Ratchet, coming over from a few berths down where he'd been working on his own patient. “Lotta these minibots look alike.”

“I saw her! When they took him!” He turned toward Ratchet, optics wild. He leapt off of the medberth. “You Autobots never knew the full story. What the DJD did to mechs.” He looked back at Nickel who was backing away. “They caught Tarn and maybe some of the others, but apparently they didn't get you! But I will!”

“Whoa... buddy. Take it easy,” Ratchet said calmly. “She's a standard-issue Decepticon medical assistant frame. 'Cons made hundreds of them. Now just put the gun down...”

“You can't lie to me, medic! I know who she is and what she's done!” And with that the dull red mech pulled the trigger.

Everything happened at once—the flash of the blaster, the screams of panic, the ducking, the leaping, the noise, the commotion. And when things came to a halt, Ratchet stood above an unconscious mech, his foot planted heavily on his neck. Nickel was being cradled by Skyflame, her chest smoking from a seam. Index, the receptionist was on the comm' screaming for the police. Fusebox was trying to get the rest of the patients to calm down.

Ratchet looked down at the dull red mech beneath him and then gave him a shove with his foot. “All right. New policy here. No weapons on the work floor,” he declared. Then he walked over to Nickel, half-draped in Skyflame's arms but still conscious. He held his arms out and Skyflame carefully deposited the whimpering minibot into the CMO's grasp.

Ratchet gently placed her upon the medberth where she had just begun working upon her attacker. “It's all right Nickel. Looks like he didn't hit anything critical,” he said softly as the first scans began to come in. He glanced over his shoulder and began barking orders. “Fusebox, take over for me on that hydraulic realignment. Skyflame, the cops should be here soon. You're to assist them. Oh, and put some cuffs on this guy,” he said with a nod to the unconscious and rather dented mech on the floor. “Just in case he wakes up early. Index, cancel the rest of today's appointments for all of us, and let First Aid and Ambulon know not to come in for the night shift.”

He turned to Nickel again, who had begun to shiver. Her optics were leaking frightened tears. “Ratchet, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault.”

“It's not your fault. He just was a bit out of sorts.”

“I told you that people would have problems with me.”

“And they have, and we've dealt with it.” He began to detach her chest plating over the area of the blast. There had been a few mechs that had refused to allow her to work on them. One had stormed out of the clinic threatening to have it shut down. Most had just stared suspiciously.

“I'm so, so sorry this happened.”

“Eh... forget it. Everything's going to be fine. And if you're going to feel guilty, let me tell you this. You were the only one that got hurt.”

She opened her mouth again but put a finger over it to shush her. “Everything's going to be fine.”

From behind Ratchet, Fusebox took a deep hissing invent as the CMO pulled up Nickel's primary chest panel. “Ooh, that looks bad.”

Ratchet glared at him. “Fusebox, go take care of that alignment. I've got this.”

With a shrug Fusebox retreated.

Ratchet looked at the damage. And then he took Nickel's hand. “I'm going to put you into stasis for this, all right?”

“Ratchet...”

“Just relax. Everything's going to be fine.” He moved to the head of the berth and withdrew the medical suspension cables. “Sleep now,” he whispered, kissing her on the forehead before carefully plugging the cables into her.

-o-o-o-o-

“Drift said I need to take you out for a vacation,” Nickel announced on the rail transport as they headed in to work. “He sent me yet another reminder.”

“Oh he did, did he?”

“He's purchased an orn for us at the Flaming Waters Lodge at Helex Pass.”

Ratchet stared. And then he scowled. He was going to grab Drift by his pretty finials when Drift was next back on Cybertron and slam him into the closest immovable object. The springs at Helex Pass were... well... romantic. Drift knew that first hand. How many times had he and Drift escaped there themselves, spending the days strolling leisurely about the mountain trails, spending the evenings soaking neck-deep in hot mineral water, spending the nights hopelessly entwined in an all too comfortable berth? If he remembered right, the Flaming Waters Lodge was one of the worst if one was trying to keep things platonic. The place featured an amazing hot pool where enough natural gas escaped the spring to carry a flame, and bathers were splashed with a mind boggling mixture of fire and water if they sat in the right place. The lodge's fueling room had a magnificent view of the mountain peaks and the bar overlooked the river gorge below.

“What does he think he's doing? I don't have time for a vacation. I'm running a clinic here for Primus'sakes.”

“He said you'd say something like that. And I was to remind you that First Aid and the rest of the staff are more than capable of taking over for an orn.”

-o-o-o-o-o-

Drift, Primus bless him, did know what he was doing, Ratchet thought as he sat in the hot water. Above him was a sky of bright stars framed by the snow-capped peaks of the mountains above the pass. The low light of the fountain of fire and mineral water illuminated the pool where he and Nickel and a dozen or so other guests relaxed. All were couples, save for a trine of seekers. Nickel sat on Ratchet's lap, the two of them surreptitiously watching the seekers laugh and drink engex and splash each other. No one seemed to mind their antics. The rest of the bath's occupants were tucked into the deep crenelations of the pool's rim, a feature that gave some semblance of privacy. Ratchet was sure that the two half hidden beneath the flaming fountain's overspill were interfacing.

And he had to admit it was all very relaxing. This was their fourth night here, stuck with nothing to do but live idly. They'd been conversing with the other guests and walking some of the trails to entertain themselves. When packing, Ratchet had quietly snuck a handful of datapads of research to look at when he had the chance, but so far he'd not brought them out. Instead he'd been enjoying his time being bored. Nickel had too.

When the seekers left, he watched the flames dance through the water of the fountain. Then he watched as Nickel dropped underwater, sinking to the bottom of the pool but still holding onto his leg. Her optics and biolights glowed beneath the dark water. And then her hand left his ankle and the configuration of lights changed, and he realized that she'd changed into her alt-mode.

When she resurfaced next to him, he took her in his hands and she transformed back into her primary-mode. Only just before this trip had they restored her alt-mode to her. The extensions had been kept though as she found the additional height quite useful at the clinic. “You're playful tonight,” Ratchet smiled at her through the steam.

“I'm still getting used to being complete again. It's been so long.”

Ratchet drew her in close and kissed her forehead. “Are you happy with it?”

She smiled at him. “Very much so.”

Ratchet drew up his knees and positioned himself so that she was resting upon them, the two staring optic-to-optic. Her hand came up out of the water and she placed it to his cheek. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“I told you that if you could survive me, I'd put you back together.”

“Not just for that... for giving me a chance.”

“You're a second-rate pleasurebot, but a first-rate medic. Getting you out of that bar was the obvious thing to do.”

“Second-rate?” She scowled at him, but then her expression softened. “Would you give me the chance to try again? To see if I've improved any since then?”

“Nickel?” Had she really just come on to him?

“Only if you're interested in taking me as a lover,” she said with a shy smile.

“Nickel, I'd like to, but only if you're interested in taking me as a lover, and you're not just offering because Drift told you to or if because you feel like you owe me something.”

“Right now I feel like I owe you everything,” she whispered. “But even if I didn't, I'd still want this.” She leaned in to where their foreheads touched and her mouth hovered a finger's breadth from his.

His spark suddenly burning with emotion and desire, Ratchet closed the distance between them and kissed her deeply.

-o-o-o-o-o-


	10. August 19th and 20th: The Farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~ 'Sides and 'Streaker had a farm. E-I-E-I-O ~  
> ~ And on this farm they had some Insecticons. E-I-E-I-O ~

-o-o-o-o-o-

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker made their way to the hive where their approach was greeted by their fifteen Insecticons, the herd all chirring and crowding at the gate.

“Where are you taking them today?” Sunstreaker asked his brother.

“Up to the north slope wilds. I've not grazed that area for a long time.”

Sunstreaker nodded. “Sounds good.” Bob ran to the gate of the hive and leaned up against the doorway, chittering at the Insecticons inside. His master called him back to his side, affixed his leash, and hooked it to a nearby tree. The scarring on the tree attested to many years of restraining the pet at this particular point.

Sideswipe moved to the doors of the cage and held up his hands, where several long Insecticon tongues came darting out to lick at his arms and fingers. Some licked at the wooden staff he carried. “Good morning everyone. Ready to head out?” he said to them.

The metallic beasts all squeaked excitedly. They knew what the arrival of their keepers meant.

As Sunstreaker moved to the cage's lock, Sideswipe backed up and started up his jetpack. Lifting up into the air, his staff held before him, he called to his brother. “Ready there?”

“Ready!”

Sidswipe shook his staff, jingling the bells he'd hung from it. They might be intelligent alien robots that traveled the stars, but somehow the most primitive technologies still worked. 

Immediately the tongues all shot back into mouths and the Insecticons unfurled their wings. A deafening hum rose as the big bugs began to rise off the ground. Sunstreaker hit the lock's final code and grabbed the nearest door to pull it open, releasing the dozen-plus excited beasts into the air. Sideswipe took off over the forest, still shaking his belled staff, and the fifteen Insecticons followed.

Sunstreaker watched them go, the red spot of his brother growing smaller and more distant, tailed by the cluster of their livestock. They may have once been great warriors, but now they were shepherds. 

Insecticon energon had become a huge delicacy on Cybertron, and somehow he and his brother had gotten into the business of producing it on Earth. They'd searched for quite a while for somewhere to start up their farm, finally finding an island in the South Pacific where the government was little concerned about their operations. The land was purchased and the cave closed in. Supplies were brought in, and then Sunstreaker hunted down their livestock.

Insecticon farming wasn't profitable on Cybertron. In the wild, there was little organic matter to stimulate the production of energon. The average Insecticon lived at a near subsistence level. On overgrown alien worlds, where allowed to graze to his heart's content, an Insecticon could fill a cube with surplus liquid energy in four days. The carbon-based flora of Earth grew thickly in its equatorial zone and produced an energon with a preferred flavor. With careful management and care not to overgraze, Sideswipe figured this island could last them almost indefinitely. They regularly supplemented the Insecticons' feed by taking some of their herd to other islands and helping to clear places where the inhabitants were putting in roads. A couple of hungry Insecticons could do the work of a bulldozer and a dump truck together with far less trauma to the surrounding forest and soil.

Sunstreaker propped open the doors of the hive—two huge barred gates to a large cage that bulged over a natural shelter-cave in the rocks. Then he unleashed Bob and the two of them went into the hive, Sunstreaker pulling the harvesting wagon behind him.

Their fifteen Insecticons—eleven queens and one alpha—nested in hollows around the cave's walls. Maximillian, the alpha, slept at the center with his harem around him. Stepping into the first nest, Giselle's nest, Sunstreaker found five fresh eggs applied to the wall and one of the two energon pots completely full. Her three day old eggs were delicately cut from the wall, and placed into plastic laundry baskets while the roundish pot was placed upside down in the funnel atop the energon drum to drain out. The thick, glowing liquid would collect in the drum and then be sent off to Cybertron for final processing and packaging. Some of it they would package themselves for local consumption—the Autobots living on Earth sent in plenty of orders.

Sunstreaker marked off Giselle's production on his datapad—four eggs taken and one pot of energon—replaced the drained pot into is holder, and moved on to the next nest. And after several hours of work he had harvested forty six eggs and seven pots of energon. Debbie's nest had contained two full pots of energon, which meant that her offspring, a rare red mutation Sideswipe had christened Sonja, had matured enough to begin energon production. Soon the youngster would select a nest of her own, Maximillian would mate with her, and she would begin to lay eggs as well.

While his master worked, Bob ran about the dirt floor of the cave, sometimes settling into a nest as if he were brooding. Bob had originally been an egg chosen for incubation; now and then they allowed a few to mature to replenish their stock of queens. A tropical storm had hit the island and flooded the cave. Two of the three eggs concurrently maturing had not survived, but somehow Bob's had even with having been submerged for several days. However with consequences. The Insecticon hatched from it never fully developed. His wings never formed to a degree where they could support flight, and he never grew beyond his third instar. A sensible farmer would have culled the stunted little thing, but Sunstreaker had somehow taken a liking to it and decided to make a pet of the unfortunate creature. While Bob would never produce energon or eggs, he had proven useful for chasing away unwanted visitors at night and tracking down any of the herd that managed to stray from Sideswipe's watch. He became Sunstreaker's constant companion. In time, Bob was considered family rather than livestock.

Sunstreaker hauled the filled wagon from the cave and along the path to the barn, where the barrels were stored and the local supply was packaged. As for the eggs... a mountain of shiny tins waited. Sunstreaker set the baskets onto the drain grate and gently washed the eggs. Then they were individually dried and packaged seven to a tin. Next Sunstreaker filled the space around the eggs with energon, tucked in a few jasmine flowers, and finally sealed up the tins. These went to boutique energon stores on Cybertron where the nouveau-riche would buy them as candy.

After the work was done in the barn, Sunstreaker took a break, then dabbled a bit on his current painting, and then saw to the repairs needed around the house. At sunset, Sideswipe would return with the flock, eleven queens, three larvae, and their alpha all well-fed on tropical foliage. Once Sonja moved to her own nest it would be twelve queens and two larvae. Hopefully Todd wouldn't pester her as he had some of the other queens. Though a queen, he fancied himself the top of the herd and had on more than one occasion foolishly challenged Maximillian for leadership. The big alpha, wild-caught on Cybertron, was more than a match for the upstart and amazingly had allowed him to live each time.

Sunstreaker finished mending the gate at the dockway and walked back up to the house, taking a moment to stroll out onto the sprawling green lawn—a feature borrowed from the humans that he quite liked. The war and its deprivations seemed so long ago. He and his brother had found a pleasant, simple living together. Yes, the rain and humidity required extra care for their frames, but the view of the ocean and the long, colorful sunrises seemed to make it all worth it. He even liked the humans they had allowed to inhabit one of the coves on their island—simple fishermen and farmers that, like they, were willing to work with their hands to survive.

He sat on one of the benches overlooking the sea. Maybe his next painting should be a seascape. His last three seascapes had sold quickly at the gallery in Hong Kong that carried his work. Or perhaps another painting of the sunrise. He loved those the best.

Bob ceased in his sniffing about the lawn and came trotting up to the bench, jumping onto it and nuzzling against his master's hand. “Good Bob,” Sunstreaker purred and skritched his neck.

Some time back, Mirage had visited, and while impressed with the operation, he'd asked when they'd be visiting Cybertron again. “You must get so bored and lonely living out here. There's nothing to do,” the noblemech had decided.

“There's plenty to do,” Sideswipe had corrected him. “Our farm requires constant care, but it gives us something to talk about and keep us busy.”

“Heck, we're still rebuilding from the tsunami a few years ago,” Sunstreaker chipped in. While their house had been above the reach of the surge, the lower part of the dockway had been reduced to rubble along with the dock it connected to. For the three years after the tsunami, they visited the human village once a week to lend their strength and size to the reconstruction efforts.

Mirage had been unimpressed with their reasons, but he had wished them well as they loaded up a dozen egg-tins for him to take to his friends back home.

Yes, perhaps the simplicity was boring, but right now, they wouldn't trade it for anything.

-o-o-o-o-o-


	11. August 21st and 22nd – Desert Mission: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl, Red Alert, and Smokescreen negotiate a treaty with Grimlock, the leader of a tribe of savages whose territory abuts that of their colony. Trapped at Grimlock's fortress by a sandstorm, the colonists are treated to a night of Dinobot hospitality.

AU August Challenge

-o-o-o-o-o-

August 21st and 22nd – Desert Mission: Part 1

-o-o-o-o-o-

“Lord Grimlock,” Smokescreen began, “We wish to negotiate a deal between yourself and the colony of Rhodos.”

“What deal?” asked the huge mech before them. Physically the Dinobot leader was intimidating, standing a head above his own people, most of whom all stood taller than the colonists. Every movement of the savage leader conveyed barely restrained strength. According to rumor even Megatron hesitated to face him in combat.

“As you know, we, like yourselves, have had trouble with the Decepticons. They raid our settlement. They steal our possessions. They steal our energon. Sometimes they steal our people.”

“Yes. We know,” Grimlock grunted. “Them do same to everyone.”

“Lord Grimlock. You have a fine band of mechs here, and you of all the desert tribes have managed to keep them out of your territory, save for an occasional raid into your outlying areas.”

Grimlock drew himself up proudly. “Yes. Us Dinobots strong. Stronger than Rhodos folk. Him Megatron fear me, Lord Grimlock.”

“Yes, well, Lord Grimlock. Your tribe has lived peacefully with the people of our colony. Of all the desert tribes, yours is the only one we allow to enter our walls.” The three colonists were quite familiar with Grimlock. He visited Rhodos several times a stellar-cycle, always with money, and always with a visit to Prowl and Red Alert's office. Sometimes he even rubbed elbows with an unwilling council member.

“We Dinobots like Rhodos. Like things of Rhodos.” He gestured to the room about him, decorated with a mix of Rhodosian and native items. The living quarters within his desert fortress were more civil than one would expect for a savage warlord.

Smokescreen smiled. This was going well. “Lord Grimlock, we understand you like Rhodosian weapons too.”

The big mech perked up. “Me Grimlock like weapons of your kind very much.” At that he rose and moved quickly to the next room, returning momentarily with an Iaconian shoulder mounted cannon held proudly. “Us Dinobots have only swords and small guns... but this...” He looked down at the massive weapon adoringly. Smokescreen and the others knew of the cannon. Some time ago, it and several other non-weapon items had been given to him as a gesture of good-will between the people of Rhodos and the tribe closest to their borders.

“Lord Grimlock,” Prowl said, rising from his seat. “We will supply your tribe with ten of these shoulder cannons in exchange for the extension of your defense against the Decepticons.”

Grimlock looked up from the cannon in his hands. “You give us weapons? Ten like this? To kill Decepticons?”

The three representatives nodded. “In exchange for you keeping the Decepticons from coming to Rhodos.”

They couldn't see his expression for the mask the Dinobot leader wore, but they were certain he was smiling. Behind him his lieutenants rumbled and chattered with much excitement. A Dinobot with flashy red and gold coloring stood. “Me Slag say ten of these make killing Decepticons easy.”

“Would you be willing to sign a treaty?” Prowl asked Grimlock. “Your protection of our borders in exchange for ten cannons?” Red Alert and Smokescreen nodded their heads.

The Dinobot laughed loudly. “You Rhodos people. Never trust given word. But Me Grimlock understand. Will sign.”

Red Alert pulled out the draft of the contract, printed out for examination. The native mechs of this region still did not trust datapads. The contract was placed upon a work table and the mechs gathered around. For several cycles Grimlock and his lieutenants studied the contract and the map. When the felt they had looked enough and asked all the questions they had, Grimlock signed his name to it and then stepped back. Red Alert and Smokescreen as well as Slag and Sludge signed it as formal witnesses. Then Prowl, as the Chief Enforcer of Rhodos, placed his palm against Grimlock's, and the two entwined their fingers for a moment—the formal way to close a deal among the tribes of desert mechs. Ever since joining the enforcers, Prowl had done his best to work hand in hand with the savages at their borders when he could.

Grimlock looked very pleased. “Tomorrow, I come to Rhodos for weapons. But tonight, Me Grimlock give you desert energon and we drink together. Then You People of Rhodos and Us Dinobots now brothers.” 

“We would be honored at your hospitality, Lord Grimlock,” said Smokescreen. The blue and red negotiator was always up for a party, and was known to frequent the border taverns where the Rhodosians and the savages met.

The contract was folded away and the table pulled back. The chairs were taken out as well but Dinobot-style seating cushions were brought in. “Tonight we have a celebration,” Grimlock informed. The Dinobots all sat, Prowl and Red Alert and Smokescreen among them. Red Alert noticed one of Grimlock's mechs shoving his brethren to take a seat next to him, a tall red Dinobot with white winglets on his shoulders. This particular savage had taken a particular interest in him ever since he'd visited Rhodos alongside Grimlock.

High-grade was brought in and served in deep cups by the mates of the Dinobots. Prowl had always found it an interesting custom that the Dinobots dressed their mates from head to knee in cloth robes that hid all but their optics, their antennae, and their hands. When he'd asked once before, he was told that it was to hide the appearance of their mates. “Other tribes not know if mate is pretty or ugly if we hide. Less likely to steal if we hide,” Grimlock had explained.

Prowl, sitting next to Grimlock, took the bowl offered him, noting the blue optics of the mech presenting it, also noticing the   
chain hobbling him at the ankles. The mech's plating was black and white as his own. The Dinobot leader noticed the scowl over the chain. “Him Bright Star always try to run away. Good mate, but him always try to leave.”

“He's not a Dinobot,” remarked Prowl, Dinobots either had red or yellow optics

Grimlock chuckled. “No. Him Bright Star a Decepticon. We capture him from Megatron.”

“But his optics are blue,” Prowl pointed out.

Grimlock shrugged. “Him Decepticon. Mate to Him Soundwave.” And then he laughed again, his rumbling laugh of pleasure. “Now him doing better—mate to Me Grimlock.”

Prowl shook his head. The desert customs regarding one's mates were barbaric. Besides engulfing them in cloth, mates were not chosen for love. They were chattels—captured, bought, sold, and traded. Grimlock, as the tribal leader, had five mechs and femmes in his keeping, while the others had two or three. Perhaps someday the Rhodosians could teach the tribes the error of their ways, but for now, it was best not to interfere with their long-held customs.

The drinking was accompanied by story-telling, a custom Prowl did appreciate. The Dinobots had a rich oral-history, in which they traced their ancestry through many phases of their people all the way back to Primus and the Guiding Hand. The stories were full of battles and conquests and encounters with great beings and dangerous monsters. While the upper rank of the Dinobots spoke some Iaconian, they told their tales in their own language accompanied by a translator. Grimlock's shackled mech was moved forward and he translated the spoken word into near flawless Iaconian. When Prowl asked, Grimlock as always was happy to provide an answer. “Him Bright Star speak many languages. Him taught by Soundwave to be translator.”

Grimlock missed it, but Prowl saw that the translator was glaring at his mate from beneath his veils.

Halfway through Sludge's uncomfortably slow recitation of an ancestor battling some enormous reptilian mech in the desert, a winged Dinobot suddenly skittered in and begged to interrupt with important news. While the Rhodosians were happy to have a quick end to the story, the Dinobots seemed all the happier. Sludge's epic tale had been getting painful to sit through. The news Swoop spouted was quickly relayed via the translator. “There is a large sandstorm moving this way, coming up from deep in the desert. It has already overswept the Oasis of Red Water and the Fortress of the Predacons.”

The three visitors flinched. While they'd known there was an atmospheric disturbance to the southwest before they'd made the journey from the pink cliffs of Rhodos into the sandy depths of Dinobot territory, it's projected route had it missing them completely. Smokescreen asked for confirmation while Red Alert radioed back to HQ in Rhodos. Smokescreen and Prowl sat in apprehension as they listened to Red Alert's side of the conversation.

“We'll have to leave now,” apologized Prowl to their hosts as the situation became clear.

Smokescreen was finishing up with HQ. “That disturbance suddenly picked up speed and changed course. But even if we leave now, it will hit us before we're home,” he said unhappily.

Grimlock gestured grandly. “You not leave then. You stay here with us tonight.”

“You've been gracious enough already, Lord Grimlock. We do not wish to impose upon you further. We only ask that you allow us to take our leave immediately,” Smokescreen said diplomatically.

“Me Grimlock insist. You stay here with Dinobots in my home. Go home tomorrow. I come with you tomorrow to get weapons.”

“Only if it isn't inconvenient for you,” said Red Alert. “We can take a bit of sand and dust you know.”

Grimlock laughed yet again. “Tonight you enjoy drink as Dinobots do. Tonight you stay and sleep as Dinobots.” He waved to his mates, distinguished from the others by black and yellow veils over their heads. “Bring Rhodos folk more drink. Make them comfortable,” he ordered before turning back to his guests. “Enjoy yourselves. We go out to prepare for storm. When we come back, Me Grimlock tell story of time Whiptail Ultima fought the Terrorcons.”

-o-o-o-o-o-

Prowl didn't protest as Grimlock led into a smallish berthroom furnished with a few pieces of furniture and a large bed. As all Dinobot beds, it was composed of a low platform topped by a thickly stuffed fiber mattress covered over with cushions and blankets to keep one warm against the chill of the desert night. The wind was howling dreadfully outside, and he could hear shutters about the fortress banging. Now and then a crash would sound from somewhere atop the sprawling structure of stone and mudbrick. He was glad they had accepted the further hospitality of the Dinobot tribe.

“You sleep here tonight, in room of Bright Star.”

Prowl spun to look behind him, knowing that Bright Star had been following them. “Please, I don't want to put Bright Star out if this is his room. I am all right to recharge in a common room.”

“Him Bright Star sleep with you. Keep You Prowl warm.” Grimlock took Bright Star by the wrist and swung him gently toward the berth. “You seem to like Him Bright Star. I think him Bright Star like you too. Him look at you a lot.”

Obediently Bright Star sat on the berth, obviously embarrassed.

Prowl stared in surprise. It was no secret that the Dinobots as well as some of the other desert tribes would share their mates with their close friends—after all, a mate was just property. But Prowl was not a Dinobot, but a foreigner. It would be an insult to refuse this immense gesture of trust with the Dinobot leader. “Lord Grimlock, I am honored that you would share your mate with me,” he said with a slight bow. He would share the berth with Bright Star at least, but he didn't have to interface with the translator.

“When storm over tomorrow we go to Rhodos. You have a good night now,” Grimlock said casually, marching out and shutting the door behind him. “Maybe you like Decepticon mate so much, you get one for yourself,” he called mirthfully through the thin door. “Maybe Me Grimlock help you catch one.”

Moving to the desk in the room, Prowl set down his work case and sorted his datapads. He could hear Bright Star shuffling on the bed with the covers. He wondered how Red Alert and Smokescreen were faring. Terrified by the noise of the storm, Red Alert had drank heavily of the native high-grade and had ended up quite inebriated and eventually unconscious. The red Dinobot next to him had carefully slung the senseless mech across his arms and started to carry him out. “Him Red Alert be all right,” Grimlock assured when Prowl and Smokescreen had moved to intercept. “Him Inferno look after him. Keep him safe.” As for Smokescreen, the mech had ended up in something of a snuggle pile with the Dinobot named Snarl and his three mates. By the end of the evening the snuggling had become a little more intimate. Not long after Snarl had pulled him to his feet and the party of five shuffled off and down a corridor, Smokescreen bolstered by two of Snarl's mates.

Prowl turned back to the berth where Bright Star was, only to find Bright Star had not only pulled back the berth covers but had removed his robe and veils.

“Bright Star!” Prowl gasped, surprised at what he saw.

The mech turned his head away shyly.

The mech was gorgeous, with bold black and white plating and a handsome faceplate. His waist was small but his chest prominent. The black helm—a mark of great beauty among Iaconians, was wonderfully proportioned. No wonder Grimlock had dared to steal him away from one of Megatron's officers. 

And then he realized that he knew who this perfect creature was.

“Jazz?” Prowl asked quietly.

-o-o-o-o-o-


	12. August 23rd and 24th – Rodimus Grundy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The author's thoughts and one of my favorite nursery rhymes--Frederick Winsor style!

AU August Challenge

-o-o-o-o-o-

August 23rd and 24th – Rodimus Grundy

-o-o-o-o-o-

My thoughts on the AU August Challenge so far:

This has been the first time I've done a writing challenge, and I've learned a lot from it. First, it has made me realize that I can craft quite a few words into a story when I have a goal in mind. Second, I've realized how much my writing skill has improved over the past decade. Third, I've experienced just how difficult it can be to be creative on a time-line. Fourth, I've realized just how time and thought consuming world-building is. Unless going for one of the more typical AU's ( High School, Band, Coffee Shop, Humanized, Mer, etc.) there really is a huge amount of time and thought required. 

I've been trying to create stories that are more than just a bit of fluff, but also stories that connect to something of myself. I also want to give the reader something original and interesting—more than just a bit of fluff. I know I have, given the number of tags I've used that until this project weren't in the AO3 taglists. Because of working about 50-60 hours a week as well as my goal to produce some quality writing, I knew I wouldn't be up to the usual 'fic-a-day' pace. Summers can be brutal in a town that relies upon a very short tourist season to make its money. But I can say that I'm proud of myself for having kept up.

I hope those who have read these challenge pieces have enjoyed them. As of August 23rd no one had yet commented on any of the chapters, but kudos have been left and the number of hits has gone up with each piece posted.

Thank you everyone, and be ready for more!

The following bit of delight was inspired by one of my all-time favorite books "A Space Child's Mother Goose" by Frederick Winsor. I am the proud owner of a first edition copy of this bit of joy. Every now and then I'll recite "The Hydrogen Dog and the Cobalt Cat" for my husband.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Rodimus Grundy,

Bought the Lost Light on a Monday,

Launched it on Tuesday,

Fought Overlord on Wednesday,

Battled the DJD on Thursday,

Defied the Functionists on Friday,

Challenged the Gods on Saturday,

Wrapped up all the loose ends on Sunday.

That was the end of Rodimus Grundy. 

-o-o-o-o-o-


	13. August 25th and 26th – Desert Mission: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz's bitter past, Prowl's solution, and Rhodos' future.

August 25rd and 26th - Desert Mission: Part 2

-o-o-o-o-o-

So before we get going into the story, I have to share this:

http://pirate-cashoo.tumblr.com/post/176495461190

The day after I posted part one of this story, I stumbled into that on Tumblr. It was just there. And it made me laugh so hard as I'd apparently just written some Grimlock/Jazz without even thinking about it being a crack ship.

-o-  
-o-o-o-  
-o-o-o-o-o- 

So back to Bright Star's bedroom and on with the story...

-o-o-o-o-o-  
-o-o-o-  
-o-

The mech's head suddenly snapped up, and he stared open mouthed at Prowl.

“You are! It's really you!” Prowl quickly moved to the berth and sat beside him. “I... Primus! After all this time I don't know what to say...”

The mech's expression suddenly fell, and he turned away as if in shame. “I'm... No... I'm not this Jazz you think I am.”

“What? You're Jazz, originally of Polyhex and then of Rhodos.”

The black and white mech shook his head. “You are mistaking me for someone else. My name is Bright Star. I'm a Decepticon,” he answered with more confidence in what he was saying.

“No. You're not. You're Jazz, of Polyhex and Rhodos.” He rose and moved to the other side of the mech, cupped his face in both hands, and studied him. “Yes... definitely. I've looked at your picture too many times to be mistaken.”

“You're mistaken.” The mech tried to turn away agian, but Prowl held his head steady.

“Bright Star... Jazz.. Don't you remember? You were taken by Decepticons. They raided Rhodos, as they did many times, and you were captured along with two other mechlings. Your parents were beside themselves with grief.” He paused, staring into the mech's optics. The face, though that of an adult now, was definitely the same. “I wasn't that much older than you at the time—I'd recently begun as an enforcer trainee in Rhodos. It may have been foolish, but when you and Cloudcrasher and Pipes were taken, I made a vow that I would do everything in my power to stop the Decepticon raids. You are part of the reason I became an enforcer. I've been looking for you for over three vorns.”

The black and white mech's optics filled with tears and when he tried to pull away again, Prowl allowed him to. 

“Jazz?” Prowl ventured softly, placing a hand on tearful mech's shoulder. “Why do you refuse to acknowledge this?”

He didn't respond for some time, but when he did, he whimpered out a tearful “Please. Just leave it. I don't want to be found. I can never go back.”

Prowl was stunned at the answer. “What? Why?”

“Yes, I know who I am. And unfortunately you know who I am. And I made some stupid decisions. And now, I just can't.”

“Jazz?”

“Please don't call me that. My name is Bright Star—the name Soundwave gave me,” he snapped, a touch of anger creeping into his voice.

“Jazz... Tell me what happened.”

-o-o-o-o-o-

Jazz clutched the lifeless form of one of the mechs that had tried to penetrate Megatron's fortress. Already some of the Decepticons were draining them of their valuable fluids and rifling their pockets. The warlord was standing with his second-in-command watching over the process, the gun-former and the small jet gloating over the victory.

“Come away,” said Soundwave, taking his young mate's arm and pulling him back. “Return to my rooms. There is nothing here for you.”

Jazz protested wordlessly, gripping the body tighter despite the tremble in his hands.

“Let go,” Soundwave commanded.

Jazz let go, but it wasn't at his keeper's command, but rather in his own shock and horror. Across the courtyard he could see Blitzwing dragging another greyed form out of the corridor that led into some of the living quarters. “This one made it into the apartments. Musta been looting but he didn't find anything he liked. He's not got anything on him,” the triple-changer laughed. “Fancy-aft foreigners.”

“Carrier,” Jazz creaked, his voice less than a whisper. If he'd ever wanted to die it was right there and then.

His parents had come for him. They had come for him with others and they had died at the hands of the Decepticons.

“Come away,” said Soundwave again, his voice no different but his pull harder.

Jazz screamed in grief. This was his fault. He had killed his family. The day the Decepticons had raided Rhodos yet again, he and his two best friends had decided to fight instead of hiding as they were supposed to. Armed with under-powered hunting weapons they had disobeyed their parents' command to retreat into the stronghold, instead heading to the city borders and making a stand. They'd been captured all too easily and hauled back as prizes. 

-o-o-o-o-o-

“Soundwave chose me as his slave, and when I was of age, he made me his mate,” Jazz sobbed quietly, now held in Prowl's arms. “When the Dinobots raided the Decepticon fortress five meta-cycles ago, most of the warriors were away and they were successful. I was captured again and was chosen by Grimlock himself as a mate.” He gave a bitter laugh. “He never even looked at me without my robes. He wanted me because he knew he could use someone to translate and to teach him Iaconian.”

“You were the one who taught him? Grimlock always said a Decepticon had, which puzzled us.”

“I taught him as best I could...”

Prowl smirked. They had always been quietly amused by Grimlock's butchery of the language. At least Grimlock and his mechs had made a concerted effort.

“Grimlock can be very intelligent about some things, but clueless about others.”

“Has he treated you well?” Prowl asked.

“He doesn't beat me, and he never forces me into his berth if I resist. The Dinobots are savages, but they do have some respect for their mates.”

“I'm glad to hear that. Sometimes we wondered about them.”

“We might be kept, but we're at least treated decently.”

“As compared to the mates of the Decepticons?”

Jazz sucked in a deep ventilation. “Cloudcrasher had been selected by Megatron for his harem and eventually died at his hands. Pipes was beaten so many times by Blitzwing... he ran away into a sandstorm one night knowing he wouldn't survive. I was fortunate to have been chosen by Soundwave, who wasn't nearly as cruel. He only punished me when I deserved it.”

Prowl's hopes crashed. The moment he'd seen Jazz he'd wondered if the other two lost mechlings would be close by as well. Such would not be the case. “Jazz, I'm going to get you out of here tomorrow. I'm going to take you back to Rhodos.”

The mech's optics flared. “No! You can't!”

“Jazz, you're one of us. You can't stay here as property of these savages.”

“I can't go back though. Not after what I've done.”

Prowl took Jazz's hands and folded his own around them. “Jazz, you made a serious mistake, you and your friends. But at the time I'm sure you thought you were doing something good for your people. And you had no way of knowing so much tragedy would come of it.”

“That might be true, but it's still my fault. I can barely live with myself knowing that I was ultimately responsible for my creators' deaths, and the deaths of Pipes and Cloudcrasher, and the others too—the ones that came to rescue me.”

“They came to rescue all three of you. At the time of that mission into the Decepticon fortress it was thought that all three of you were still alive. But Jazz, making mistakes is a part of life. Tragedy is a part of life.”

“But so much of it was my doing.” Jazz slumped onto the berth, shaking with the tears. “I should have known better. When Cloudcrasher suggested it, I shouldn't have led us out there. I don't deserve to return to Rhodos. I don't deserve anything but what I've earned.” He stuffed his faceplate into a pillow to muffle his spark-breaking sobs.

Prowl said no more, eventually lying down beside the other mech and pulling the covers over them.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“I want to buy Bright Star from you,” Prowl told Grimlock the next morning as he and the Dinobot leader sipped some morning fuel together.

From across the room, where Jazz was fueling with Grimlock's other four mates and the Dinobot leader's two sparklings, came an anguished gasp.

Grimlock's mask was down, and he grinned broadly. “Me Grimlock knew you would like him. Him Bright Star nice to have in berth.”

“Tell me what you would sell him for,” Prowl said. Despite Grimlock's conjecture, he'd only held the distraught mech that night. And to be honest, it hadn't been any fun.

“Him Bright Star not for sale. Him Grimlock's favorite. Him teach me Iaconian and Decepticon words. Useful for talking to other tribes. Him useful for story telling. You know from last night. Nice to look at too,” he mused.

“If you just need a translator, I can loan him to you on occasion. I'll bring him here when you want,” Prowl offered.

“I have better idea. When you need nice mech in berth, you come visit. Me Grimlock happy to share with my friend Prowl,” Grimlock counter-offered. And then he looked at his harem over in the corner. “You can share any of my mates.” He called to the shrouded forms, and four came over, leaving Jazz and the sparklings behind. At his command, they shed their robes and veils.

Prowl had to admit he was impressed with the savage's taste in companions. The mech and the three femmes were quite beautiful. Even the two Dinobot femmes were attractive by Iaconian standards. The mech appeared to be a Decepticon for his red optics and violet plating. The other femme was unidentifiable as to her origins but she had the most unusual green optics and definitely a bestial alt-mode.

“See,” said Grimlock proudly. “All very nice. You Prowl can share any one.” But then he cocked his head and stared at the large gold and grey Dinobot femme. “Well, maybe not Her Clawpoint. Her maybe too much for Rhodos mech.” Grimlock chuckled. “But me like her very much.”

Grimlock sent the four back to their corner, poured himself a little more energon, and turned back to Prowl. “Storm is quiet now. We go back to Rhodos soon.”

“Lord Grimlock,” Prowl said gently. “Bright Star is not a Decepticon.”

Grimlock looked up at the Rhodosian official, questioning in his expression.

“He's Rhodosian.”

“What?” He looked into the corner again. “No. Him Decepticon. Me take him from Decepticon fortress myself.”

“He was created in a city of our people, and when he was just a sparkling, they moved to Rhodos. He's one of my kind.”

Grimlock looked at Prowl disbelievingly. “Him Bright Star tell me that him Decepticon.”

“He told me the same thing too.” Prowl heard the whimper from across the room. “Just look at him. He's not one of them.”

“Him not Decepticon?” Grimlock looked into the corner with a scowl. “Bright Star! You come here!” he ordered.

Trembling, Jazz came forward and knelt timidly next to the Dinobot leader.

“Where you from? Tell truth!”

Through tears, the black and white mech pleaded with Grimlock.

“What's he saying?” Prowl asked.

The Dinobot huffed frustratedly. “Him not answer question. Him beg me to stay here.”

Prowl sighed. “Grimlock, order him to tell you where he's from.”

Grimlock grabbed Jazz's shoulder in a heavy grip and held it against the floor. “Speak now.”

Jazz whimpered and squirmed, but began to speak in Iaconian. “I was created in Polyhex, and when I was just a sparkling my parents brought me to Rhodos.” He proceeded to recount the story he'd told Prowl the night before, Grimlock and the other four looking on with much amazement. The other four mates paused in their quiet morning chatter. This was a very interesting development. “Lord Grimlock, please. I don't want to go back to Rhodos. Don't let him take me.”

Prowl spoke solemnly. “Grimlock, I have to report this to the Council of Rhodos. It is my duty as the Chief Enforcer. I am obligated to do so. Once they find out you have him, they will demand his return.”

Grimlock thought in silence for a while, sipping his cup of energon, now and then glancing down at the shuddering robe that concealed a sudden wrench in the works of the treaty and its rewards.

“Let me buy him from you. I think that will be the only solution,” Prowl offered again. “I can bring him back to Rhodos, and you will retain your honor for not having given in to the demands of others.” It was common knowledge among the enforcers that it was easier to deal with the desert savages in a way that made them look like they were the ones in control. You never took an unruly visiting tribesman into custody—you offered him a place to fuel and recharge and think about a recent turn of events. They knew to accept this offer before the humiliation of being dragged off to jail could occur.

The Dinobot shifted and stared into his cup thoughtfully. “You are wise, Prowl of Rhodos.”

From a pocket, Prowl pulled out his holster and pistol. “I'll give you this for him.”

Grimlock's optics brightened beneath the visor. “You give me your favorite weapon?” Grimlock had long admired the pistol from his visits with Prowl.

Prowl nodded.

“Seems like good exchange. Me give you nice mate. You give me nice pistol.”

“No, please don't do this,” Jazz begged.

Grimlock huffed a little laugh. “Me sell you to my friend Prowl. Him Prowl like you. And Him Prowl not have mate.”

Jazz whimpered again. “I'll just run away. You'll never find me. No one will ever see me again.”

Prowl handed over the pistol, and Grimlock rose and locked the holster onto a thigh-plate. He drew the pistol a few times, grinning happily. And then he sat back down and finished his energon. “I give you Him Bright Star in front of Dinobots. Then they know he now your mate.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The party headed for Rhodos gathered in the outer courtyard of Grimlock's fortress. Red Alert was there with the red Dinobot, and it was obvious that something positive had transpired between them in the night, for they rarely got more than a few paces away from each other. The looks and smiles exchanged between them hinted at some pretty serious diplomacy having occurred. Smokescreen came out, escorted by Snarl and his three mates, the latter clinging to him excitedly.

When Prowl and Grimlock emerged, the Dinobot leader was pulling Jazz behind him by one arm. At the center of the courtyard, they stopped and Grimlock raised his hands. From the galleries overlooking the courtyard the rest of the tribe watched in curiosity.

Before the assembly of his people, Grimlock undressed Jazz, taking the veils and robe off of the sobbing mech, who curled his arms protectively around himself on being revealed. Then Grimlock put Jazz's hand into Prowl's and spoke aloud.

As Grimlock had instructed, Prowl took the robes that had been handed to him not long before and he put them upon the naked mech, covering Jazz from head to ankle once again. Led by Grimlock, cheers and cries of excitement followed.

“What's going on?” Red Alert asked. “What was that about?” Smokescreen was looking equally confused.

“Him Grimlock pass ownership of Bright Star to Prowl. Maybe as gift. Maybe sold,” explained Inferno. Inferno then stroked his hand down Red Alert's shoulder pauldron and spoke quietly into the smaller mech's audial. “If you say you be my mate, me never sell you.”

Smokescreen's optics widened. It was shocking enough that the Chief Enforcer had just purchased a slave, a custom the Rhodosians were hoping to end in the desert territories. And a Dinobot actually had the nerve to court a Rhodosian official?

Though Red Alert was not discouraging the tall mech's attentions. In fact he even seemed to be enjoying them with a certain coyness to his smile.

The ceremony concluded, Grimlock raised his hands and spoke to his tribe. More cheers followed.Prowl strolled over, Jazz now being led by him.

“So what's this about?” asked Smokescreen. “Inferno says that you now own Bright Star.”

Prowl nodded, grinning smugly. “Just getting myself a mate. I bought Bright Star off of Grimlock.”

“You really bought a mech?” Red Alert gasped.

“Sure did. I need a mate. Grimlock has always insisted. You both have insisted that I should settle down with someone. Given that this one's a translator, I finally realized I'd found a mech worth keeping around.”

Smokescreen grinned in amusement, but Red Alert looked scandalized. “When the council hears about this...”

“When the council hears about this, I have a good explanation. Now, shall we head back to Rhodos? I believe it's time we fulfilled our half of the contract.”

Grimlock was finishing up with his speech, and with a final round of cheering he transformed into his alt-mode—that of a huge reptilian beast. “To Rhodos!” he shouted eagerly.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Well past sunset Prowl returned to his apartment, a modest dwelling with an enviable view of both the ocean and the pink cliffs of Rhodos. It had been a long journey from Grimlock's fortress followed by the turning over of the promised weapons to Grimlock. And then there had been the disbursement of the weapons and the Dinobots' immediate and strange ceremony of consecration to Mortilus of the weapons. The Council of Rhodos required a lot of explanations. And then Grimlock had been eager to visit the marketplace. It wasn't until sunset that the Dinobots finally left the city, giddy at their new standing with the colony and the advantage they now held over the other desert tribes. There would be a price to pay for that power—namely the outer defense of Rhodos against the Decepticons—but their new firepower would make it a delight.

Prowl unlocked the doors to his dwelling and escorted Jazz inside. The veiled mech looked about, his hands lightly touching the furnishings and the bits of technology he'd not seen in his long captivity. Prowl watched him curiously. When Jazz came to the washrack he stared in amazement. “I haven't taken a shower since... since...” he said shakily, hands running over the glass doorway that led the tiled space beyond. “We only had basins and wet towels... if that.”

“Would you like to shower now?” Prowl offered.

Jazz nodded.

Prowl opened the glass door and turned on the water as Jazz followed him in, eagerly tugging off his clothing. And then he stepped into the spray of water.

And then, as the warm water cascaded over his frame, Jazz laughed.

Prowl was amazed. For the past day he'd only heard speech and sobs and unhappiness from the mech. The long journey back to Rhodos had been punctuated with bitter cries. But now Jazz was laughing.

Prowl stepped away, leaving a towel upon the polishing bench for him and taking away the robes.

When Jazz finally emerged from the shower, Prowl presented him with a ration of energon and motioned for him to sit on the couch in the central area of the apartment.

“You didn't report me to the council,” Jazz said, sipping at the cup. “I thought you were going to.” The towel was still wrapped around him though he was long dry, as if he were uncomfortable without some external covering.

“Not today. There was enough to deal with at the moment. I will in time.”

Jazz stared at him. “You intend to actually keep me as your mate. Your cautions to Grimlock were just a means to insure he'd give me up, weren't they?” Jazz accused flatly.

Prowl stared at him in disbelief. “Well no. Of course not. I didn't report you because for now, it just makes things a bit easier while we work through the initialization of the contract with Grimlock.”

“And then once you do report me, and I'm 'found,' what are you going to do with me?” Jazz asked, not fully sure if he believed Prowl's reasoning. “What happens then?”

Prowl leaned back into the couch. “Jazz, you underwent a harrowing ordeal. Your capture. Your imprisonment. The deaths of your parents. The crushing feeling of guilt that you've been living with. Your fear of returning. I thought a lot about it last night and on the return trip.”

“You did?”

Prowl nodded. “I have a plan.”

Jazz shuffled inside the towel. “You have a plan. Everyone seems to have a plan for me. Soundwave. Grimlock. Now you.”

“Jazz, I was forged a tactician. All I do is plan. And I'm good at it. Since becoming the Chief Enforcer plans have done so much for Rhodos. Without me, this colony would have...” He gestured about him aggressively. And then he noticed the worried look on Jazz's face.

Prowl lowered his hands and softened his voice. “I've spent so long working to fight the Decepticons and to put an end to their raids. Not only those against us, but of the other colonies along the Southern Reach Seafront. And I want you to be a part of my work.”

“What? What could I do?”

“Jazz, I want you as my partner in this. You have first-hand knowledge of the Decepticons. You lived with them since you were captured until the time you were taken by the Dinobots. You speak their language. You know their territory. You know their ways. Their allies. Their methods. But more than that, you lived with the Dinobots as well and became just as familiar with them. The languages you speak. The customs you understand. The knowledge you have. I realized today just how fortunate I would be to have you working with me. Smokescreen's a brilliant negotiator, but he doesn't have your knowledge. The both of you working together along with my planning—we'd be amazing.”

Jazz just sat there staring, taking it all in. And then he crossed his arms over his chest. “I would have been better off just hiding with Grimlock. All he wanted was a bit of translation and a bit of housework and a frag now and then.”

Prowl sighed. For as distraught as the mech had been before, he was now quite defiant.

“Jazz. There's something in this for you too. This plan is not just about my work, about what I want accomplish here.”

The mech didn't respond.

“Grimlock said that you were always running away. I looked at those shackles on your legs. Those were Decepticon-made. You had them before Grimlock abducted you. Which leads me to believe that you were always running away from the Decepticons as well.”

Jazz did not answer. He moved his foot, at which the chain clinked loudly in the quiet room. Grimlock's apartments were heavily carpeted and draped. Prowl's were stiff and bare.

“You told me you'd run from me as well. Jazz, you need to stop running. It's become obvious to me that you're not just running from whoever's keeping you, but from yourself, aren't you?”

Jazz stared at him blankly, the truth of the matter sinking in.

“I want you to stop running, to stay and help me. You're running because of guilt, but you can redeem yourself so you no longer have to run. Help me to make peace between our people and the desert tribes. Help me to teach them cooperation. Help me to defeat those whose leaders refuse to cease the warfare. I've shored up our borders now with the Dinobots assistance, but there's so much more. While you were sleeping realized how I could do this with your help.” He took Jazz's hand in his own. “Stop hiding and come back to your people. I am giving a chance here to make up for what happened that you feel so much guilt for. We can stop the bloodshed. Many more lives can and will be saved than the ones that were lost that you feel responsible for.”

The mech just sat there, staring blankly. Prowl's plan was a lot to take in and consider.

Prowl patted Jazz's hand and rose. “I'm going to wash up, and then I'm going to get some recharge. Tomorrow I'll take you in to get those shackles removed.” He left the room, but then turned back and called from the doorway. “Jazz, think about it. I know this has been difficult for you. But think about it.” 

-o-o-o-o-o-

Prowl felt the thin thermal cover lift and another mech crawl onto the berth beside him and try to settle.. His berth was only half the size of the one they'd shared the night before, which meant they ended up lying closely together. A timid arm wrapped over Prowl's waist; whether in seeking comfort or simply getting comfortable in the small berth Prowl was unsure, but he would welcome it whatever the reason. “Sleep well Jazz. I know that you're upset and today's been difficult, but you'll feel better in the morning.”

“Thank you,” came the equally timid whisper.

When Prowl heard the sound of soft crying, he turned himself around and once more took the mech into his arms. “Tomorrow will be better. I promise,” he said softly, stroking the mech's helm.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Prowl, Smokescreen, and Grimlock stood together facing the Terrorcon leader outside of his fortress. Jazz stood nearby—positioned equidistant between the two parties.

Hun-Gurrr stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his lieutenants doing likewise. “Why should I stop fighting? Stop raiding? That is what we live for,” he snarled.

Jazz translated to Prowl from the Decepticon dialect into Iaconian, and translated Prowl's answer back. “We wish to bring peace to the Great Desert. We want to end the fighting so that we can concentrate on improving trade and the quality of life. The desert tribes are keeping themselves from ever succeeding because of this constant warfare.”

“Warfare is what brings us riches and energon,” Hun-Gurrr countered. “We need to eat,” he retorted.

Grimlock had an answer to that. “Dinobots first to make peace with Rhodosians. By making peace, we have energon every night. Tribe is bigger now. Me Grimlock have ten children alive. How many children you have alive? Healers from Rhodos take care of us when we hurt. We buy good things from Rhodos and other colonies. Monsterbots not attack us now. Horrorcons not attack us now either. Them afraid of Dinobots and Rhodosians.”

Hun-Gurrr was still not impressed, and he and the others began to return to their fortress, ignoring Smokescreen's calls for them to remain. Jazz moved to intercept them. The Terrorcons bristled and reached for their weapons at first, but then relaxed as Jazz dropped to his knees and reached for Hun-Gurrr's hand. Hun-Gurrr gave it to him and stepped closer, allowing Jazz to pull the huge, rough hand to his faceplate, by desert custom a gesture of honesty and trust on the part of the kneeler. “The Rhodosians mean well for your people. If you change your mind, you can contact me. You have my radio frequencies.”

The Terrorcon leader smiled at the foreigner, pleased with the gesture. But he only gave a snort of laughter. “Maybe the Rhodosians will join the Decepticon Alliance. How about that? Why don't you contact me when your people know who really is master of the desert.”

The Terrorcons continued past and went into their fortress. Jazz walked back to the others, shaking his head. “He's a stubborn one, all right. Just as Snapdragon warned me.”

“He'll come around, perhaps once the Horrorcons come into the fold. I don't think he knows how close Weirdwolf is to switching allegiances.”

“Him Hun-Gurrr barbarian. Him not see good of Rhodos.”

“His choice,” Jazz shrugged. “I'd hate to fight him though. Snapdragon said that he eats his slain opponents.”

“Me told you Him Hun-Gurrr barbarian. Him always eating.”

Prowl shook his head. “Let's get on the road shall we? It's a long way home.”

The four climbed aboard the sand-skimmer they'd taken to carry them the difficult distance to Hun-Gurrr's lair, Jazz taking the helm. The Terrorcons lived deep within the rocky wastes to the southeast of Rhodos, well beyond the borders of the Dinobots' claims.

“Me Grimlock tell others to make ready for us. Have high-grade and mates ready.” They would be stopping at the Dinobot fortress for the night before the Rhodosians continued on home.

“I'm looking forward to a bit of Dinobot hospitality,” Smokescreen grinned. “I've taken a liking to your variety of high-grade. Snarl's good company too.”

“Dinobots always welcome Smokescreen and Prowl and Jazz. Come for rest. Come for drink.”

Prowl smiled to himself every time he heard the Dinobot leader use Jazz's name. It had taken some time, but Grimlock no longer called his former mate by his previous designation. The mech that had once been Bright Star was no longer a chattel but an equal.

“Maybe You Prowl want to share berth with Her Firebite tonight?” Grimlock suggested. Firebite was the smaller of Grimlock's Dinobot mates. “Try Dinobot femme?”

Prowl shook his head. “Lord Grimlock, I appreciate the offer, but ever since you sold Jazz to me, I've taken no other into my berth.”

“Really? You like him that much?”

From the controls, Jazz gave a proud smile. It was the truth. Though it had taken a long time to consummate their espousal. Despite Jazz always having been known as Prowl's mate, even among the Rhodosians, they'd only been physically intimate for the past seventeen meta-cycles.

“I like him very much. And he's the best partner I could ever want in my line of work.”

Grimlock laughed happily. “Me Grimlock glad I sell him to you. Me Grimlock want best for my friend Prowl.”

Jazz looked back over his shoulder and smiled at the two on the bench at the back of the skimmer. “Thank you for doing that, Grimlock.” Under Prowl's guidance he'd blossomed from a timid servant into confident enforcer. He'd shed the strangling veils of his guilt and shame and begun to embrace his own identity, rather than the one he'd become accustomed to as Soundwave's property. Prowl had sent him to Iacon thrice for training courses, and in half a stellar-cycle would be sent back for more. Prowl had refused to let him go for more than one session in a row, having come to rely upon Jazz's understanding of the desert people as he tried to work toward peace in the desert—now not just for the Rhodosians but for all of the tribes.

Inside, Prowl felt a surge of warmth, and it wasn't from the hot desert sun, now just past its midday zenith.

-o-o-o-o-o-


	14. August 27th and 28th: Intimacy, Endurance, Profference, Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet x Nickel... again. I will go down with this ship.

-o-o-o-o-o-

August 27th and 28th – Intimacy, Disclosure, Profference, Devotion

-o-o-o-o-o-

Ratchet caught up to Nickel where she sat upon the bench, waiting for the larger mech at the peak's summit. “That's quite a climb,” Ratchet wheezed, his cooling fans roaring. Despite the low temperatures and the steady wind, his core temperature was heading for the red zone.

Nickel giggled. She'd run on ahead of her lover, her lighter frame and smaller build much more tolerant of the mountain trails. Ratchet all but fell onto the bench, and he put his arm around his smaller companion.

“The desk clerk was right. It is an amazing view,” Ratchet said, now looking around at the stupendous scenery.

Below them was the Helex Pass valley and it's charming hotels in the sheltered zone above the gorge. They could see theirs nestled against the gorge's lip, and they could even make out which balcony led to their room. Not far off was the Flaming Waters lodge where they'd stayed their first time here. Even at this great height they could make out the large outdoor pool and the plume of steam rising from the fountain. Their current hotel had an outdoor hot pool also marked by a cloud of steam.

Nickel snuggled against the CMO. “I'm glad we could come back for another vacation.”

“Well, as before you can blame Drift. He demanded that I take you here again.”

“Seems like you're always blaming Drift,” Nickel giggled. The wind streamed through her antennae with an almost musical hum.

“He's an easy target.”

“If he's an easy target, why did you never make him your conjunx? Is it because of Rodimus?”

Ratchet shook his head. “Naw. I knew him long before he ever met Rodimus.”

“But you've always loved him.”

Ratchet sighed. “I loved him from the first time I ever saw him, a near corpse on my table there in Rodion,” he laughed. “But somehow I just knew that we were never meant to be more than friends and lovers. Thankfully he felt the same way. When he turns on the charm, there's nothing I'd deny him.”

Nickel squeezed Ratchet's arm. “I know what you mean. How else do you think he was able to manipulate me into looking after you?”

“I'm glad you got to know him.”

She gave a little giggle. “Well, us former 'Cons gotta look out for each other. Though in our case, I think he's looking out for you mostly.”

“It is a little twisted, isn't it?” Ratchet raised his hand and pointed out to the wider end of the gorge. “There's the rail transport coming in.”

They watched the train snake up the valley, eventually coming to a stop at the Helex Pass station before moving on two breems later.

“Tarn always looked out for me, when I was his medic. The others on his team were always so large and so dangerous. Even though I was on their side, sometimes he didn't completely trust the others. We had a number of problem members over the course of our mission.” She sighed.

“You never mentioned that before.”

“I slept in his berthroom sometimes, just in case. For Safety. He insisted. Especially when we had this one Helex. He... he had a bad history with femmes.”

“You weren't Tarn's lover, were you?”

She shook her head. “Only his friend and medic. She looked out across the valley at the mountains on the opposite side. “But if he'd ever asked me...” Her voice trailed off into the wind.

Ratchet looked down at her beside him, her face unreadable, and he pulled her closer, his arm covering her both possessively and protectively.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Ratchet stepped up onto the impromptu riser of a power connection box, gesturing for silence from the mob that had gathered about the clinic. “Why are you wasting your time like this? You're not doing anyone any good here.”

“Tarn's medic!” someone near the back shouted.

Ratchet scowled. The patient yesterday had made good on his threat and today every newsfeed was carrying a story that the Autobot CMO had a member of the DJD working for him. But Ratchet hadn't expected protesters. They were there when he and Nickel had come in to work, and they hadn't left when the enforcers arrived not long afterward.

“You are keeping patients from getting the care they want and need!” he shouted to the crowd.

“They can go to other clinics. This isn't the only one in Iacon. I still have patients here that I need to look after.”

“We won't let them in. You have a butcher on your staff!”

“She's not a butcher. She never executed anyone. Her job was simply to take care of her employers' medical needs. She just happened to be assigned to the DJD. She was support staff. Not a butcher.”

The crowd wasn't satisfied and went on with their harangue.

Inside the clinic, behind the blinds, Nickel stood watching Ratchet outside trying to deal with the unhappy crowd. Skyflame stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “It will be okay. People trust Ratchet.”

“This clinic will close, because of me,” she said quietly.

“I don't think it will. Ratchet saved a lot of lives over the course of the war, and people will keep coming back to him because of that. They trust him. Your clientele is mostly ex-Cons you know. They'll keep coming back to you. Heck, I trust you.” He patted her shoulder comfortingly. “This will blow over.”

-o-o-o-o-o-

“Ratchet?”

“Mmm?” Ratchet didn't even look up from his datapad as they sat having a bit of breakfast before work. He'd been surveying every news report he could find in regards to the trouble at the clinic, trying to stay ahead of the continuing protests.

“Ratchet... I'm not coming in today.”

He looked up now. His expression was a mix of confusion and concern, but then it shifted to one of understanding. He gave her a gentle smile. “It's all right. I'm sure Skyflame and Fusebox together can take care of most of your patients. I can take whatever they can't handle.” He reached across the table and patted her hand. “We all understand.”

“Ratchet... I'm not coming in ever again,” she said somberly.

“Nickel, what?” You're kidding me, right?” He tossed aside the datapad and reached across the table for her taking her hand and holding it.

“I can't go in. The people don't want me there.”

“The people? What people?” he grouched.

“Ratchet, I just can't. It was bad enough with the shooting, but after this... It's not fair to you or any of the other staff. They shouldn't have to put up with the harrassment.”

“Nickel...” He rose and moved to her side of the table, plucked her off of her tall chair, and then he sat down on the couch with her in his lap. “This will blow over, Nickel. It did before. It will again It's just taking a bit more time.”

The minbot shook her head. “It isn't going to blow over any time soon. There were more protesters yesterday than the day before.” Why couldn't he understand this? “I'm resigning. The interns can take over for me. Together they're ready.”

Ratchet picked her up and held her at arms' length, glaring at her. “You can't just resign. We need you. I need you. On those difficult surgeries, there's no one I'd rather have beside me.”

“Ratchet, I'm sorry. I know you took a chance with having me there, and I knew that there would be problems. I'm stepping out.”

Ratchet huffed and set her down. “We'll talk about this tonight. I have to get going.”

-o-o-o-o-o-

The clinic's staff all sat at the long table in the back room of the Five Suns Oilhouse, a bar just a couple blocks from the clinic that had become a favorite haunt of theirs. It was rare that they were all here at once though. The waitresses brought drinks, and after a couple of rounds, Ratchet stood and raised his hands for silence. “Everyone, everyone.” He smiled and looked around the table, taking in the faces there. “I can't tell you what joy it is for me to see you all here.” He took a quick look down at Nickel, brought along for the gathering as well. “When I see you all here—laughing, joking, drinking—it makes me wonder why we fought the Great War for so long. Look how much we've accomplished at the clinic together despite our differences and our disparate origins.” 

The eleven employees applauded happily and some raised their glasses in a toast.

“But I have news,” Ratchet began again when the noise quieted. “As you know, ever since the protests last stellar-cycle, Nickel has refused to work with us. I've pleaded with her. I've begged her. I've done what I can to try to lure her back. But she's been stubborn. And she's threatened violence if I persist in my asking.”

As the others chuckled, Ratchet looked down at the grey minibot sitting next to him. His voice grew sober. “I came to revelation some time ago when I was in surgery.” Everyone else grew quiet. They well-recognized the boss' 'about to say something very important' tone of voice. “I realized how much I have missed you working with me and beside me, and how much I'd come to rely upon you. I was in that difficult surgery, and no offense Fusebox, but I wished that she was there assisting me with it.” He took Nickel's hand and held it tightly. “Just your presence steadies me.”

“I'm not coming back. You know that,” she said defensively. “Even if you get them all to beg me.”

Ratchet just smiled. “Well since that realization, I've been thinking a lot about the unfortunate situation.” He looked to First Aid, who stood, knowing his cue. Ratched addressed the group boldly. “I am turning over the clinic to First Aid. He and I have worked out financial arrangements, and he'll be purchasing it from me.”

The staff all gasped and looked at each other, stunned by the news.

“I know this is a bit of a shock. And I must let you know that things will not stay the same,” Ratchet continued when able. “He's been talking some nonsense about expanding the laboratory and adding an overnight ward, and even increasing wages.”

More gasps and murmurs ran around the table. “Ratchet? Are you retiring?” Fusebox asked.

Ratchet shook his head. “Me? Retire? I hardly think so.”

He looked down at Nickel again, who was staring at him in disbelief. “Ratchet?” she asked, all concern.

“I've been offered a new assignment,” he announced. “I've not accepted yet. But there's a chance I will provided conditions are met.”

“Where? What will you be doing?” came the calls from around the table.

“I have been offered the position of CMO aboard the Lost Light. I've been asked again and again to take the job, but because of the clinic I've always refused. But I told them I would accept now, with one stipulation.” His gaze again went to Nickel. “I told Rodimus and Drift that I would take the position if I were allowed to bring my conjunx with me.”

There were more gasps and words of questioning. The staff had known that over the meta-cycles Ratchet and Nickel had grown quite close, but this was news to them that their relationship had been formalized.

“Conjunx?” Nickel choked. “What?”

Ratchet lifted her to stand upon her chair beside him so that they stood optic-to-optic. He took her hands and brought each to his mouth, kissing her fingers softly. The others all looked on in disbelief. “I also realized the other day that you and I are almost completely bonded. We've completed all but one of the rites required of the Conjunx Ritus.”

“We have?” she questioned.

“We have,” he assured her.

“What!? When!?”

Ratchet held her hands tightly, staring into her wide optics. “Intimacy? Everyone knows we've been physically close.” He turned to glare at Ambulon. “Unfortunately one of us has video captures to demonstrate exactly how close we've been.”

The group all laughed—they'd never stopped teasing Ratchet about what had transpired upon the rolling laboratory cart that one night after Ratchet and Nickel thought everyone else had left.

Ratchet focused again on Nickel. “Disclosure? In the course of our relationship, we've shared so many secrets. I know things even Megatron never knew about you and the Decepticons, the DJD in particular. And I'm sure you've got yourself quite a heaping of blackmail material that could be used against me.”

“I'd never...”

Ratchet smiled. “I know you wouldn't.” He shifted the grip on her hands. “Devotion? You left the clinic because you were afraid that your continued presence would shut it down. And I'm sure you knew that you really had nowhere else to go, not after all that negative publicity. That's as selfless and as caring as anyone could get. Me? I'm abandoning this clinic I've put so much into, just so I can be with you.”

“Ratchet! You can't. Not for me.”

“I can, and I very well will, even though I'm going to miss not just it, but everyone. It's been my life since the war, but I'm giving it up for you. And as for the Rite of Profference...”

“I've never given you anything... anything special, that is,” she blurted.

“I know.” He pulled her hands together and flattened them cozily between his—a gesture known as 'the medic's kiss' for the sensitivity of their hands. “Though I will say that there's no one else who can give a massage to my ankle struts quite like you can. But I really don't think we can count that.”

“You've given me so much, Ratchet.”

“Most importantly, I gave you a second chance. Not to sound too self-praising here, but after you thanked me for that second chance, that one night at the Flaming Waters, I realized that it was the greatest gift someone could have ever given you. It just happened to be me that recognized you deserved so much better, and I was fortunate enough to be in a position to give that to you.”

“I... I have nothing to give, really. Nothing of such worthiness. That's the missing part, right?” Her voice wavered at the edge of tears.

“Nickel... There is something I want of you.”

“What?”

“Give me the gift of your presence aboard the Lost Light,” Ratchet said, pulling her hands to his lips again and kissing them sweetly. “Ultra Magnus and Red Alert have cleared you to be aboard. We've been cleared to work the medbay together. Rodimus and Drift want us both. They insist on having us both.” The old medic looked imploringly into her optics.

“Ratchet...”

“Would you?” he asked, his voice but a whisper.

As much as she tried to fight it, the tears began to flow, streams of optic wash running down her faceplate.

“Say yes!” Index shouted from the back.

“Say no! We don't want pay raises!” Fusebox teased.

The rest of the clinic's employees called out encouragement. They all knew how much Ratchet and Nickel adored each other. It just seemed right that they should formalize it.

“Nickel? Join me?”

“Yes!” she squeaked. “I'll join you. Of course I'll join you!”

The applause and cheering that broke out was enough to turn the heads of the rest of the patrons in the front room of the Five Suns. The waitresses looked in, wondering what was up.

“I love you, Ratchet,” Nickel said, beaming brightly, smooshing her lips against his in a fervent kiss.

“I love you too,” Ratchet returned.

“Conjunx endura,” she breathed, her spark spinning like every fan in her body was at that moment. “Us.”

“Together always,” he replied.


	15. August 29th & 30th: Mystery Cybertronian Theater 3000

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We've secretly replaced Tom Servo, Crow, Gypsy, and Cambot with Skids, Swerve, Nautica, and Rewind. Repeat to yourself: 'It's just AU. I should really just relax.' No movies were riffed in the making of this AU.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The Autopsy of Mr. Hoover

-o-o-o-o-o-

Rewind began recording as Joel began to pull on a pair of gloves. It was yet another moment of life based upon the film the scientist and his assistant had sent. Why the human felt compelled to reenact moments from the drama, he'd never know. But everyone seemed to enjoy them, and admittedly it took the edge off of their boredom. Swerve really seemed to enjoy the 'nurse costume' Joel had dressed Nautica in. Swerve and Skids had also been somewhat costumed for this presentation in human-type clothing as well. Swerve even enjoyed the 'necktie' he'd been lassoed with.

“All right, gentlemen and Miss,” Joel began in a somewhat pontificating manner. He stood upon the control desk with his own table upon it. Something lay beneath a sheet atop that. “This is your first exposure to the world of robotic anatomy. Beneath this sheet is a one we will call...” He raised his fingers into air-quotes. “...Mr. Hoover, who through no fault of his own is dead.”

Nautica gave a slight hum of concern. Skids and Swerve glanced at each other. Joel had the corpse of some other mech? And he was going to dissect it as the human doctor had for his students in the movie?

“He left this world with one possession, an upholstery attachment.” Joel pulled back the sheet to reveal the suction-based cleaning machine they'd seen him using on occasion. It lay stretched out long upon the table looking rather innocuous. Swerve giggled, and Nautica breathed a sigh of relief.

“Your vacuum cleaner?” Skids asked.

“C'mon guys. Play along. Pretend we're those guys in the movie,” Joel huffed. He covered the vacuum cleaner back up. “All right?”

“Fine, fine.”

“Good.” Joel reached for the sheet again. “Ready?” He pulled it away, and this time the three all gasped.

“All right now, keep in mind, today's lesson will lay the groundwork for your future careers in medicine. Or should I say mechanics?” He tucked the sheet aside. “Some of you will succeed gloriously while others...” He pointed either at Swerve or Nautica, who were standing next to each other on Joel's right, but it was unclear which of them, or perhaps both, he was indicating. “...Will fail miserably. Now remember, today's lesson is on anatomy. There will be times when you wish to leave the room.”

In some communal thought process the three suddenly turned and began to shuffle away. “Okay, okay,” Skids muttered.

“But don't,” Joel demanded.

“Sorry,” Swerve apologized.

Joel began again. “All right now, by examining Mr. Hoover...” Joel scrutinized the supposed corpse of the cleaning machine, poking at it lightly. “...We can say he led a very rich and rewarding existence. He inhaled deeply from the fibers of the carpet of life, and left the world a little cleaner.” His speaking had taken on a rather monotonous quality, and he pressed on the bag. “Now, I carry on a bit.” At this point, Joel picked up an apple and his speaking pattern became more rambling and his voice indistinct. “...maybe, but you let me go, and you can see that...”

Rewind switched the aim of his camera to the hand-drawn cut-out of a skeleton Joel had tacked to the wall, obviously referring to the human skeleton hanging nearby in the movie's autopsy scene. Then he moved it to the clock—a convention used to make it appear as if much time were passing.

“... like this, and goes like this, and leads us up to...” Joel paused and took a bite of the apple. “...The abdominal bag incision, okay?” Nautica gave a loud groan—almost a wail. Skids and Swerve played along and groaned as well as Joel fumbled at the base of the bag. “...Leading us into the epidermal layer.” He began to open the bag, revealing a papery layer beneath the stiff cloth construct into which they presumed the things suctioned up off of the floor waited until disposal. It really was an anatomy lesson. Not in regards to mechs, but in regards to this particular item from Earth. “...Using the zipper so as not to damage the soft inner bladder.”

Nautica decided to ham it up and began to swoon. “Oh... Thunderclash...oh...” she wailed and hit the floor.

Joel continued. It was obvious he was enjoying this particular reenactment. “All right. Finally,” He peered into the separation of the upholstery bag's sides.

Rewind zoomed in on the skeleton again as Joel rambled, sometimes speaking nonsense or just gibberish. “...With a flip of the switch, you're in business. The pelvis...”

Rewind moved his focus to the clock again, just in time to catch Swerve moving the big hand of it forward, “Who gave a quick “Oopsie” when he realized the archivist had caught him.

“... From which we drink lustfully from.” Joel pulled his hands away from the vacuum cleaner and flexed his fingers, obviously transitioning to something else. “Next, we must probe Mr. Hoover's vascular-gastro cavity.” He boldly stuck his hand into the fully opened bag and the paper lining inside.

“Oh, it stinks,” Skids commented as Joel rummaged about inside. Swerve was moaning noises of disgust.

“As we can see, he probably cleaned a very dirty, dirty carpet,” Joel declared, biting into his apple. “As we can see, we have some pieces of hair.” He pulled them out to show them to the Cybertronians, at which Nautica, having righted herself and put her costume's hat back on, groaned in revulsion. “Um, some plastic things.” These were pulled out and shown specifically to Skids, who expressed his disgust. “A few pennies here. Some Trix cereal. Some audio tape.” The last of these was pulled out with great show, and they really could have been some poor creature's entrails. The next item removed puzzled Joel a bit. “And something... looks like a piece of wax with some dog food attached.”

Nautica fell again as if in a faint. The others took notice. “Oh, look out!” Skids called, looking down at Nautica lying at their feet.

“Oh, yuck! Nautica's chunking!” Swerve declared. What 'chunking' meant, Rewind wasn't exactly sure. But then Swerve was a whole lot more familiar with Earth's expressions.

There was no stopping Joel “Right now, gentlemen, please pay attention. This is for your benefit.” He reached into the bag again as the mechs, spurred on by Nautica's scene, showed themselves to be likewise repulsed by the 'dissection' of this supposed member of their own kind. “Now we probe deeper into the vascular-gastral cavity.” As his hand went all the way in, Skids and Swerve both pretended to swoon and faint. And Joel probably would have gone on, when suddenly the lights on the desk and the doorway to the theater switched on, signaling that the movie was about to start again. Joel, as caught up as he was in the reenactment, continued right along. “...Finding movie signus majoris, which we must expel, meaning movie sign!” he shouted, pulling his hand out of the bag, slapping the button, and heading for the theater.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The Gypsy Moons

-o-o-o-o-o-

Joel stepped in front of Rewind's camera, laughing as he turned to face the lens. “Oh! I hope you enjoy today's film, and I certainly hope those gypsy moons don't crash.” Rewind smiled as he recorded. Skids and Swerve had really been getting into these little comic bits the human indulged in during the experiments. This one had required some preparation and practice.

“Did you know that the 'gypsy moons' is actually a reference to a popular song title from the 1920s?” Joel held up a packet of sheet music, obviously hand drawn and fashioned to look like something much older. What the 1920's was, Rewind would have to ask later. Swerve knew these kind of things but the other Cybertronians didn't. In the movie the gypsy moons were two rogue planetoids that circled each other as they traveled through space, occasionally destroying other astronomical bodies in their path. That was the focus of this experiment.

“Mmm hmm. Don't remember? Well, here's our own Skids, Nautica, and Swerve to help you out, doing their rendition of the Gypsy Moons. Hit it, kids!” He stepped aside with a flourish of his hand.

Behind Joel was a cut-out of a simple boat placed behind a row of stylistically drawn waves of water. Behind the 'boat' two moons that matched the ones in the drawing, only far larger, had been hung on the wall. For some reason they had faces. Were these moons sentient? In the boat sat the three Cybertronians, all dressed in costumes again. The two mechs wore matching shirts and vests of cloth, the vests festively striped. A bow of black cloth adorned the neckline of each. Each also wore a flattish, yellowish hat encircled with a red ribbon. Swerve had gone even further, adorning his upper lip with what Cybertronians considered an insignia of importance but for humans was simply a stylish outgrowth of hair.

Nautica though... even Rewind had to say she looked charming. She'd donned a dress of fabric and a necklace of large white beads—where Joel got all this stuff he'd never know. Atop her head was a large pink bow made of fabric with a lovely sheen. The purple of her lips had been painted over with red. She sat between the mechs, looking as if she were sitting at the center of the boat.

As the lights brightened over their little arrangement, Swerve spoke, beginning their sketch. “No, I'm tellin' ya, Nautica, I love you!”

“Really?” Nautica replied.

Swerve interrupted. “You haven't a chance with a girl like her. It's me she cares for! Isn't that right, Nautica?”

Nautica quickly looked at both. “I can't decide.”

“Can't decide? Well maybe this will help...” Skids answered, raising the cut-out of some stringed instrument to his chest and pretending to play it as some recorded music began in the background. He whistled a little with the tune, something Joel had taught him to do. “~Buh boom buh boom,~” he sang before Swerve started a verse, raising his own prop instrument.

“~I can't sleep, or clean my room,  
since you and I first had our swoony-swoon  
in early June under the clear blue gypsy moon.~”

“Oh, that's nice,” Nautica smiled, pretending to be flattered.

“Thank you,” chirped Swerve, smiling flirtatiously at the femme.

Skids was not to be outdone. “No, no, no. Don't listen to him, honey! Listen to me!”

Nautica turned to Skids. “I should?”

“~Lovers have their tune, I know that I was meant for you.  
Yes, one and one makes two and that would be just me and you, honey!  
Strollin' arm and arm under a gyp-gyp-gypsy moon.~”

“Oh, very good,” Nautica praised, leaning his direction.

“Take my hand!” Skids encouraged her. “Oh wait, you can't. I need it to play this instrument.”

Rewind tried not to laugh. It was all so simple and silly—the cut-out canoe, the waves that slid back and forth in front of it, the clothing, the song. But seeing them all having a good time warmed his spark, taking the edge off the fact that he'd been separated from Chromedome.

Swerve sung again, not to be so easily bested in trying to woo the femme.

“~Skids is a macaroon. His family are all baboons,  
But my love is a typhoon, and, besides, my dad's a...tycoon!  
So come with me under the gyp-gyp-gypsy moon.~”

“Daddy's got money,” Nautica giggled, leaning toward Swerve this time.

Skids huffed. “Don't listed to that swill-slinger over there. Listen to me!”

“~I'm a starter for the Bruins, so don't ya' leave my heart in ruins,  
I've been in a cocoon, but now I sing just like a loon!  
Since you and I sang tunes under a gyp-gyp-gypsy moon.~”

Nautica looked at the two again. This song was fun even if she had no clue as to what half of the lyrics meant. Joel had insisted they meant something and he tried to explain, but without any success. But now it was her turn to sing. “Well I've got something to say.”

“Yeah?” Swerve asked anxiously.

“Tell me! Tell me!” Skids clamored.

Nautica smiled and began. It felt good to sing, especially with friends. Since they'd been imprisoned here she'd grown quite close to the other three, and she adored the disheveled little human. He was always trying to make them laugh, and he did with his constant commentary during the experiments.

“~Although I'd just as soon take Nyquil with a spoon  
then listen to you two drone on about the gypsy moon,  
if the choice is between you two goons, I'd rather date Stacey Kuhns!

Swerve and Skids looked puzzled. “Stacey Coon?” they whispered to each other.

Swerve continued.

“~I think you judge too soon in this matter of the moon,~”

“I did?” Nautica asked.

Suddenly the musical accompaniment changed to something loose and jangly, and Swerve broke from the Gypsy Moons' melody to match it, singing in a slow but raucous voice.

“~'Cause when the lights go out,  
and we're sittin' on the couch,~”

Skids apparently had known this was coming, for he'd been hooting at the end of each phrase. Nautica was surprised, though oddly delighted, and she danced a little to the new tune, wrapped up in their enthusiasm. Joel was completely surprised and he rushed in along the edge of the boat. 

“~I'm gonna give ya everything...~”

“Stop! Stop!!” Before Swerve could sing another line in that raunchy tone, Joel stretched up and slapped his hands against Swerve's mouth and held them there, trying to pinch his lip components closed. Embarrassed, he turned back to Rewind.

“We hope you enjoyed this little trip down memory lane,” he said to the camera. “And now here's our own Al Jazzbo Collins with a message.” He turned back to the two mechs who were grinning wickedly at him, and removed one hand from Swerve's face so that he could shake his finger at them in cautioning. “Never again you guys. That's it.”

Rewind shut off the recording and turned down the lights. 

-o-o-o-o-o-

Down, Down, Down...

-o-o-o-o-o-

Mike had taught Swerve and Skids to play various card games, and had even made them a deck sized to their hands. And it was on a quiet afternoon they were doing so at the command desk. “All right, hit me,” Swerve called.

As Skids lay down another card, the yellow hexfield viewscreen light began to flash. “Oh, hey Mike. Someone's calling from the hexfield.”

There was no reply, so Swerve called a bit louder. “Mike!”

The human called back from down the hallway. He must have been in the kitchen or the workroom. “Yeah, you wanna get that. I'm really terribly awfully busy right now”

Skids made a chuffing noise. Mike always seemed to be terribly awfully busy when someone was calling for him. “Sure, fine. I'm your slave. Hang on.” The blue Cybertronian hit the flashing yellow light to activate the screen, and it began to iris open. 

“Jeeze,” Swerve moaned. Mike was probably flirting with Nautica again, probably cornering her as she was trying to make repairs to something aboard the Satellite of Love. He could really use a female of his own species, or at least a similar species.

The two mechs turned from their game to see who was calling. All sorts of strange folk showed up, either calling or visiting. Ironically they were often characters from the experiments, which they never quite understood how that happened.

As the hexfield opened fully, they saw that it was indeed a character from the current experiment. However, it was quite obviously Mike in a costume—a suit jacket, a tie, a bad bald cap, and a pair of glasses. He'd disguised himself as the wildly gesturing professor who'd been lecturing at the beginning of the experiment. Complimenting this was a hastily constructed set dominated by a blackboard with a diagram of the Earth's supposed concentric layers. “Well, well hello, it's me the gesture professor from the beginning of the film.” Mike pointed to the drawing on the blackboard, motioning around the various layers shown. “I just came to update you on a few of the... few... down, down...”

“Uh, Mike. Come on over here, honey,” Swerve called out, shaking his head at the sad little scene.

“No, it's me, the professor... down, down, I'm goin' down,” Mike continued, unwilling to give up his sketch despite having been called out on it almost immediately.

Swerve sighed. “Uh Fine, we'll come over there.” He set down his cards.

Mike simply went on despite them. “Down... down. Well that's gonna be hard.” His gestures broadened. “I wish you could...”

“We'll see you in a sec,” Skids announced and headed for the hallway as Mike mumbled something about the university.

Swerve was right behind him. “Well lets get this over with. He has his moments.” The hexfield closed behind them as they left the room.

“Well he brought it on himself.”

“Does he realize how this kind of thing reflects on the entire satellite?”

Swerve shook his head. “Probably not.”

They could hear Mike's voice from the workroom ahead as they approached. “Down, down, down. I'm goin' down down.”

“Sad really.”

They entered the workroom, finding Mike in front of his set, Rewind sitting there, a cable hooking him directly into the satellite's communications net, his camera fixed on the scene. The archivist gave a shrug.

“Okay stop, Mike.”

Mike did his best to ignore them. “See the concentric layers...”

“Mike, stop it!” Skids barked.

The human immediately ceased and he stood there, looking rather defeated and deflated. “Jeeze.”

Swerve leaned onto one of the work tables and addressed him. “Ah, So Mike, I'm a guy watching you do this impression. Where do I...uh, laugh?” Mike just turned away, looking quite embarrassed. “Mike, Mike? What makes this funny to me?” Swerve's emphasis was a little cruel. Tensions between the two had been a bit high of late.

Mike shrugged unhappily. “I don't know.”

Swerve folded his arms over his chest. “Uh-huh. Huh...”

Still at the blackboard, Mike fiddled with his tie, but then suddenly became angry and defensive. “Well, you guys always get to do your funny little things!” he snapped as he pointed accusingly at the two mechs, “Like your pierogies and your cremehorns and your krummhorns and everything and I don't say word one! Then I try to add a little levity and you jump all over me!”

There was a touch of hurt in his voice, which Swerve did notice. “Well maybe you're right, Mike. But, come to us with that stuff.”

Mike put his hands on his hips, still trying to defend himself, this time with a glare.

“Talk to us. 'Cause this, this...this is no good,” Swerve continued.

Skids stepped in. “So you wanna finish your little skit, honey?”

The human pouted. “Ah, no.”

Skids raised his arms. “'Kay. Now c'mon over here give me a hug.”

Mike resisted.

“C'mon. C'mon, Mike,” Skids coaxed, and the human gave in with a sigh. Skids patted him gently on the back, huge hands around him. “There. Now say you're sorry to Swerve.”

“Sorry, Swerve.”

Swerve accepted the apology. “Thank you, Mike.”

Skids continued to orchestrate the disarmament talks, patting the emotional little human again comfortingly. Mike was so young, and sometimes Skids felt like he had to step in as a parent. “Okay, why don't you sit here for a little while. Think about it, all right?”

Mike, still pouting, nodded as they left the room. Rewind wasn't sure if he should go with them.

The commercial sign button suddenly began to flash, and almost instinctively Mike moved to hit it. “We'll be right...” There was a momentary flash of impish glee across his face. “...down, down...”

“MIKE!” shouted Skids and Swerve from the hall.

Rewind quickly cut the recording.

-o-o-o-o-o-


End file.
